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THE ABBOT. 












Snbrfto ILang IStitian 


The Abbot 

*?» By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 


With Introductory Essay and Notes 
by Andrew Lang ^ Illustrated 



Dana Estes & Company 
jt ^ jt ^ Publishers 
Boston 








Copyright, i8gj 
By Estes and Lauriat 


/ty-^ 


Snljreixi iLait0 lEtition, 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE ABBOT 

Volume I. 


Roland at Langside . 
Catherine and Roland 
Roland and the Setons 


PAGP 

Frontispiece' 

. * . 132 

. . 236 


Volume II. 

“What seekest thou here?” 

“ Madman, let me go ! ” 


123 

159 





EDITOE’S INTEODUCTION 


TO 

THE ABBOT. 

The interval between the publication of ^<The Monas- 
tery ” and that of The Abbot seemed to be passed 
at the high tide of Scott’s prosperity. He received his 
title of Baronet, he spent some time in London, where 
he encountered the din and bustle of a general election, 
and, at Abbotsford, ^Hhe Abbotsford Hunt ” and other 
jovialities were in their prime. Yet, in spite of so 
many distractions, while ^^The Monastery” had ap- 
peared in February 1820, ^‘The Abbot” followed it in 
the September of the same year. Doubtless parls of it 
were written while the Eadical mob was howling for 
Sir Francis Burdett, under Scott’s windows in Picca- 
dilly. (Lockhart, vi. 210.) ^‘Sir Walter himself 
thought well of ‘ The Abbot ’ when he had finished it,” 
Lockhart writes. When he sent me a complete copy, 
I found on a slip of paper at the beginning of volume 
first these two lines from ‘Tom Crib’s Memorial to 
Congress ’ — 

Up he rose in a funk, lapped a toothful of brandy. 

And to it again ! — any odds upon Sandy.” 

His resumption of the topic of “The Monastery” 
showed a determination not to be driven from the 
ground of his first failure. Yet it can hardly be said 
that the theme of the Eeformation was as well suited 
to Scott’s genius as the later struggle between Cavaliers 
and Covenanters. His sympathies, as he says in the 


z 


EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO 


Introductory Epistle/^ were not deeply engaged with 
the Lost Cause of the ancient Church in Scotland. 
Now his sentiments, though not his actual judgment, 
were deeply engaged on the side of the Stuarts and of 
the Jacobites, both during the Restoration and in the 
’15 and the ’45.. The Reformation did not show an 
aristocracy at feud with the populace, since both the 
nobles and the people, for different reasons, were 
united, on the whole, against the Church of Rome. 
We might have expected Scott to be strong on the side 
of an old settled order, and to be heartily of the 
antiquarian party, whereas ‘‘Presbyterianism is not an 
antiquarian religion.” On the other hand, it wantonly 
destroyed the noblest monuments of mediaeval civi- 
lisation, and the destruction is described in “ The 
Abbot.” 

Dr. Johnson could not forgive this wantonj^ess, nor 
forgive John Knox, who abetted it; but Sir Walter took 
the fall of cathedrals, the gutting of monasteries, the 
greedy plundering of graves, the ignorant despoiling 
of treasures of art, much more easily than did Johnson. 
It was better, he says in “The Tales of a Grand- 
father,” that the minsters should be overthrown than 
that erroneous and superstitious doctrines should be 
preached in them. There was, of course, an alterna- 
tive. The truth as it is in Calvin might have been 
preached in the ancient and beautiful edifices. But, 
though this might have been, if revolutions were con- 
ducted on principles of reason and good taste, prac- 
tically the ecclesiastical buildings of Scotland were 
doomed, as soon tis their inmates were driven out, 
and Protestantism established. The Catholic Church 
had been the Church of all the nation, of rich and 
poor alike; Presbyterianism almost at once became 
the Church of the democracy. Necessarily it was poor, 
for the nobles instantly began to seize the Church lands, 


THE ABBOT. ^ 


si 


under various pretences. Knoxes scheme for endowing 
the Presbyterian Kirk and education was dismissed 
with a sneer as a devout imagination.’’ The nobles 
had long encroached on Church lands, by a system 
of lay “ commendators ” : now they robbed right and 
left, leaving what they were pleased to call ^Hhe 
Truth ” extremely poor and cold. As time went on, 
the gentry, to a great extent, became members of the 
Episcopalian body, thereby widening the rift between 
classes in Scotland. Sir Walter himself was a Scottish 
Episcopalian. The Kirk became a peasant Church, 
with a peasant clergy. Such a Church had neither 
need of the magnificent cathedrals, nor means to keep 
them in repair, nor appreciation of their beauty. The 
roofs were stripped of lead, the graves of their poor 
treasures ; rain and wind dilapidated what the fury ol 
^Hhe rascal multitude” (as Knox said) had spared. 
The cathedrals became quarries whence stone was dug 
Moreover, the Presbyterian Kirk was not only very poor 
and very austere, but was inevitably doomed to split 
up into smaller sects. Thus the Reformation destroyed 
almost all the noblest relics of an old Christian civili- 
sation, while it put nothing in their place, save a 
kind of barns, with ugly galleries. Nothing of this 
work could engage the sympathies of Scott. Doubtless 
he understood the Scottish Reformation very well. 
It began in the increase of knowledge, in a critical 
reading of the Greek Testament. Therein the doc- 
trines which the Church owes to development and tra- 
dition, the ceremonies of Pagan times which she allows 
to survive in a modified form, have no warrant, or none 
that could not be contested. Men like Patrick Hamil- 
ton and the scholars of St. Leonard’s sowed these crit- 
ical ideas broadcast, appealing direct to the populace. 
The rather reluctant persecutions and burnings with 
which the Church replied very naturally stimulated 


*11 


EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO 


the hatred of a people who began to perceive that they 
had been gulled. The nobles saw their chance to rob 
the Church, and went vigorously into that pious work. 
Then party divisions and ambitions threw them into 
the arms of Henry VIII., to whom many of them sold 
their ‘daggers. The mob destroyed and devastated, 
partly in a sincere fanaticism, partly because in all 
ages destruction is, and will be, the delight of the 
unbridled rabble. Meanwhile it is impossible to say 
that the higher ecclesiastics, like Beaton, set an ex- 
ample of scrupulousness, or of a noble life. With 
illustrious exceptions, like Kennedy at St. Andrews, 
they were politicians and men of pleasure first, eccle- 
siastics afterwards. They wore the cuirass below the 
canonicals. Nor did the Catholic clergy in general 
choose to die for their Mass as their assailants, the 
early Reformers, had been ready to die for their Bible. 
Thus, except for the distinguished courage and absence 
of self-seeking, in amiable men like Patrick Hamilton, 
and unamiable men like Knox, the Scottish Refor- 
mation was a ruffianly and a blundered affair. The 
Church had, to a great extent, deserved its doom, by 
luxury and selfishness, by appeals to the grosser super- 
stition of mankind, by a half-hearted attempt to an- 
swer arguments with fagots. The Reformed religion 
displayed equal intolerance: as to superstition, she 
burned far more witches than Lindores and Beaton 
had burned Reformers. The Lords of the Congrega- 
tion were a set of sanctimonious brigands; the preachers 
had none of the open-mindedness which criticism should 
impart. 

Scott was, of course, well acquainted with all this 
aspect of the Scottish Reformation to which a natural 
patriotism makes many' Scottish writers shut their eyes. 
To sympathise very keenly with either party was to 
him impossible. His sentiments found nothing to 


THE ABBOT. 


xiii 


which they could firmly attach themselves. Thus his 
Roland Grseme, like his Morton, his Waverley, his 
Oshal distone, is no strong party man. He ends as a 
Protestant, indeed, but really he remains in a kind of 
jmte milieu. He ponders over the empty and desecrated 
isle of St. Serf, in Loch Leven, seeing a laird’s cattle feed 
where Culdees and canons had worked and prayed, and 
he sees no clear course, nothing that satisfies the intel- 
lect. A revolution must always bewilder us with such 
contradictions, and, for his own part, Scott had not 
much sympathy with the new order, and scarce any with 
the Lost Cause. The least bigoted of men, he was con- 
sistently Protestant. His judgment could never really 
be bribed by his emotions. Among the obscure rea- 
sons which made George Borrow hate Sir Walter was 
the conviction of the rowdy Protestant that Scott made 
a primrose path for converts to the ancient faith. Noth 
ing, we know from all his writings, was further from 
Scott’s intention. His old Catholic devotee, Roland 
Graeme’s grandmother, his courageous Abbot, somewhat 
thinly treated, are as purely disinterested studies of 
loyalty to Rome as Henry Warden is a purely unbiassed 
study of the brave, steadfast, but pedantic and intoler- 
ant preacher of the new sect. Scott’s treatment of 
Queen Mary is masterly. He was no believer in her 
innocence of Darnley’s murder, as he shows in the most 
passionate and highly wrought of all his scenes — her 
frenzy when her dreadful past is recalled by the name 
of Sebastian! (vol. ii. chap, xi.) He refused to write a 
Life of the Queen, because his sentiments, and the pop- 
ular sentiment, ran counter to his judgment. Neces- 
sarily he admired and pitied that most unfortunate lady 
cradled in defeat, destined to a task perfectly hopeless 
and impossible, beset by every temptation, insulted by 
every rude gospeller, betrayed on every hand. Her 
beauty, her grace, her charm, her courage, her steadfast 


liv 


EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO 


loyalty to her creed, raise the Queen high above the 
tumult of turbulent robber lords, who alternately sup- 
ported and deserted her. That she was guilty of Darn- 
ley^s death, scarce any but a devout sentimentalist will 
now deny. That she was a wanton, her enemies will 
scarce any longer seriously assert. She lived in an age 
when royal authority, on all hands, in every court, was 
reduced to punish treason by the dagger, when the 
course of law could not win its natural way. She lived 
in a time of unbridled passions and unscrupulous re- 
venges, and it cannot be maintained that she never 
yielded to the manner and the methods of her day. 
She would have been almost a saint, if she had not been 
a murderess; but all the rest of her character — her 
courage, her wit, her address, her kindness, her nobility 
of manners among a mannerless people — set her high 
above her contemporaries, and must always win for her 
pity and admiration. It is thus that Scott has drawn 
her who, had she inherited her father’s sword as well as 
his sceptre, would have been ranked among heroes. In 
his gallery of historical portraits, hers is the saddest and 
the fairest, as her tragedy is the deepest and the most 
solemn. 

Though hampered, as we have tried to show, in his 
task by historical circumstances, Scott certainly re- 
covered his lost ground in ‘‘The Abbot,” and rose from 
his fall in “The Monastery.” As long as he lingers 
in Castle Avenel, we feel the gloom of the previous tale 
around us, but, when once Roland Graeme starts on his 
adventures, the legend never flags. The melancholy of 
the hermit’s ruined shrine; the not ill-natured Protest- 
ant mischief of Adam Woodcock; the amusing first in- 
terview with the delightful Catherine; the spirited 
charge of Roland in the street fight; his pursuit of 
Catherine into the house of the Seytons, are all full of 
Scott’s verve as it is at its best. The scenes in Loch 


THE ABBOT. 


XV 


Leven are among his most moving and vigorous; the 
gaiety of youth makes a fortunate and winning contrast 
to the prison life and the heart-breaking sorrows of the 
Queen. The literature of escapes is always thrilling: 
here Scott had his matter almost ready made to his 
hand. The close may remind us, in its melancholy, of 
the close of Kedgauntlet : it is the end of an auld 
sang, and the ‘‘good news of a private nature can 
hardly console us. 

In this novel Scott has overcome his usual difficulty 
in drawing young lovers: Catherine Seyton is, after 
Diana Vernon, the most winning, the merriest and 
truest of his girls, and, when he lias sown his wild 
oats at Castle Avenel, the intrepid Eoland is not un- 
worthy of his good fortune. All this element of the 
story has that gaiety and rapid movement in which 
Alexandre Dumas too often excels his great master. The 
book was written in recovered health, in the prime of a 
prosperity more apparent than real — for the affairs of 
the Ballantynes somehow made it necessary that Messrs. 
Longman should share the enterprise of publishing with 
Constable. Scott, however, was passing happy days, 
not far from Loch Leven, at Blair Adam, with his friend 
the Chief Commissioner, and other old companions of 
his youth. It was at Blair Adam, as he told Lockhart, 
that he conceived the story of “The Abbot,’’ probably 
after a visit to the beautiful ruined castle on the isle of 
Loch Leven, where ancient trees still grow which may 
have sheltered Queen Mary. The castle, indeed, is 
seen at every turn from the northern side of Loch Leven. 
It is now, perhaps, more visited by anglers than by the 
pilgrims of romance, though nowhere is there a scene 
more in harmony with the genius of Scott. 

In the contemporary criticisms, we find that the 
“Edinburgh Eeview” now assails, not without ill- 
temper and acrimony, while the “Quarterly ” applauds 


EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO 


xvf 

and defends, though at first it was crusty and censor- 
ious. It is difficult to understand the taste to which 
Catherine Seyton seems a wilful deterioration of Diana 
Vernon, and a critic who cavils at the title of a novel 
makes open confession of stupidity. Here follows the 
gist of the Edinburgh Review’s” critique: — 

‘^In point of real merit, ‘ The Abbot ’ is not better, 
we think, than ^ The Monastery ’ — but it is fuller of 
historical paintings. . . . The Popish zealots, whether 
in the shape of prophetic crones or heroic monks, are 
very tiresome personages. Catherine Seyton is a wilful 
deterioration of Diana Vernon, and is far too pert and 
confident, while her paramour [szc] Roland Graeme is, 
for a good part of the work, little better than a black- 
guard boy. . . . Some of the scenes at Loch Leven are* of 
a different pitch, though the formal and measured 
sarcasms which the Queen and Lady Douglas inter- 
change with such solemn verbosity have a very heavy 
and unnatural effect. . . . There are some grand passages 
'>f enthusiasm and devoted courage in Catherine Seyton. 
The escape from Loch Leven is given with great effect 
and spirit, and the whole mustering and march to 
Langside, as well as the battle itself, are full of life 
and colouring. . . . On the whole, however, the work 
is unsatisfactory, and too deficient in design and unity. 
We do not know why it should have been called ‘ The 
Abbot,’ as that personage has scarcely anything to do 
with it. As an historical sketch, it has neither begin- 
ning nor end. ” 

The ‘‘Quarterly” article might be signed by any 
modern admirer of Scott; — 

“ ‘The Abbot’ has, however, far greater advantages 
over its predecessor than those, great as they are, that 
arise from their relative situation. We escape from 
the dull tower of Glendearg, to Edinburgh, and Holy 
Rood House, and Loch Leven Castle, and the field of 


THE ABBOT. 


xvfi 


Langside, and to high dames and mighty earls, and 
exchange the obscure squabbling of the hamlet and 
the convent for events where the passions of indi- 
viduals decided the fate of kingdoms, and, above all, 
we exchange unintelligible fairy ism for human actors 
and human feelings. . . . Queen Mary . . . has at length 
fallen into the hands of an author that deserves her. 
He had not only to paint the queen, the beauty, and 
the accomplished woman, . . . but to shade his picture 
with the weaknesses that were necessary to its prob- 
ability, without diminishing its fascination; to allude 
constantly to past events, without implying the inno- 
cence or guilt of the principal character. . . . Never was 
there a* more difficult attempt, or a more splendid 
execution, ... he haS given her a companion from that 
class of characters ... in which the arch buoyancy of 
youth is united to the arduous designs and firm resolves 
of maturer age ; and where all that is lovely and playful 
and fragile in woman is mixed with the deep cares and 
adventurous enterprise of man. Not even in Flora 
Mac- Ivor or Diana Vernon is this union more bewitch- 
ing than in Catherine Seyton. Our author, to be sure, 
was put upon his mettle. The hero was to betray his 
trust, to desert the religion of which he. began to feel 
the truth, and to engage in schemes the success of 
which endangered the ruin of his country, and was 
certain to affect .that of the protectors of his infancy. 
Strong temptations were necessary ... we feel that an 
older and more thinking mind than Koland’s would not 
have resisted them. We admit the probability and the 
interest of the narrative, and yet we wish it could have 
been altered! . . . The rule of poetical justice has ob- 
tained such currency, that whatever the author rewards 
he is supposed to approve. Ouj author appears to have 
felt this objection, and to have endeavoured to obviate 
it by expedients which strike us as aggravations. He 
* 


xviii 


EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO 


makes Roland rejoice that Morton’s interruption enabled 
him to part from the Regent, without plighting his 
troth to fulfil his orders, and feel himself at liberty, 
without any breach of honour, to contribute to the 
Queen’s escape, as soon as he has intimated to Dryfes- 
dale that he refuses trust. , . . But this blemish ... is 
the only material fault we have to find with the story. 
It is, in general, beautifully conceived, and beautifully 
executed. ... We have a beginning which excites curi- 
osity, a middle which keeps it up, and an end by which 
it is satisfied. 

And the loves of Catherine and Roland are most 
skilfully interwoven with the fate of their ipistress. 
Never was a double plot better connected. From our 
first entrance into the castle of Loch Leven, to the 
last signal of adieu waved to Mary in the Firth of 
Galloway, our interest is concentrated on the three 
principal characters, interrupted by no episodes, and 
broken by few improbabilities. We are criticising an 
author too enterprising to be deterred by any difficulties 
of execution. We have no doubt, therefore, that in 
suppressing the visit paid by the Regent to Mary, 
during her imprisonment, he decided wisely.” ^ 

The reviews in ‘‘Blackwood” then appeared as part 
of William Wastle’s literary diary. Willie Wastle is 
a traditional character in the rhymes of Scottish school 
children. This critic also was favourable : — 

“The novel of ‘ The Abbot ’ has three principal di- 
visions in the story . . . the adventures and education of 
the page at Avenel Castle, then his adventures in Edin- 
burgh, and, lastly, the imprisonment of the Queen, and 
her escape. The first part has no close connection with 
the two last; but some parts of it are very striking, 

1 See letter of Drury to Cecil, April 3, 1568 (Keith, ii. 789). 
Here Drury says that the Queen proposed to marry George 
Douglas. 


THE ABBOT. 


XIX 


such as the scene in the chapel, where Mr. Warden 
preaches at him. But, probably, the finest part in the 
first volume is where Halbert Glendinning returns, 
after a long absence, and holds a conversation with his 
lady, which is full of dignity, and has a fine antique 

gravity and stateliness As to Catherine Seyton . . . 

there is more of sweetness in the character of this 
young lady than in that of Diana Vernon, hut the 
ground of both characters is similar. Catherine 
always excites interest throughout the novel, whenever 
she appears. . . . The discovery of the brother's resem- 
blance comes in too late at the end of the story. . . . 
Now, to speak of the part relating to Edinburgh and 
Holyrood House, this strikes me as the most lively of 
the whole. . . . The last part, which relates to Queen 
Mary, seems to me not so productive of remarkable 
scenes as some readers will expect. . . . The signing of 
the papers is the best scene, and next to that the 
changing of the ke3"S. . . . The poisoning has less effect. 
. . . Hatred and revenge are perhaps too predominant 
throughout the story, for the sarcasms that pass between 
Mary and Lady Lochleven are but hitter crusts,’^ — 
they were, however, much in the manner of Mary^s 
letters which so provoked Elizabeth. 

Perhaps no taste places <‘The Abbot’' in the very 
first flight of the Waverley Novels. But it has qualities 
as great as the best, though the opening is somewhat 
long, and though Scott is not in the regions of history 
where he proves to he most himself — the times of 
Jacobites and Covenanters. 


June 189S 


Andrew Lang. 





INTRODUCTION 


TO 

THE ABBOT. 

From what is said in the Introduction to the Monas- 
tery, it must necessarily be inferred, that the Author 
considered that romance as something very like a 
failure. It is true, the booksellers did not complain 
of the sale, because, unless on very felicitous occasions, 
or on those which are equally the reverse, literary pop- 
ularity is not gained or lost by a single publication. 
Leisure must be allowed for the tide both to flow and ebb. 
But I was conscious that, in my situation, not to ad- 
vance was in some degree to recede, and being natu- 
rally unwilling to think that the principle of decay lay 
in myself, I was at least desirous to know of a certainty, 
whether the degree of discountenance which I had in- 
curred, was now owing to an ill-managed story, or an 
ill-chosen subject. 

I was never, I confess, one of those who are willing 
to suppose the brains of an author to be a kind of milk, 
which will not stand above a single creaming, and who 
are eternally harping to young authors to husband their 
efforts, and to be chary of their reputation, lest it grow 
hackneyed in the eyes of men. Perhaps I was, and 
have always been, the more indifferent to the degree 
of estimation in which I might be held as an author, be- 
cause I did not put so high a value as many others 
upon what is termed literary reputation in the abstract, 
or at least upon the species of popularity which had 


xxii 


INTRODUCTION TO 


fallen to my share ; for though it were worse than affec- 
tation to deny that my vanity was satisfied at my suc- 
cess in the department in which chance had in some 
measure enlisted me, I was, nevertheless, far from 
thinking that the novelist or romance-writer stands 
high in the ranks of literature. But I spare the reader 
farther egotism on this subject, as I have expressed my 
opinion very fully in the Introductory Epistle to the 
Fortunes of Nigel, first edition; and, although it be 
composed in an imaginary character, it is as sincere 
and candid as if it had been written without my 
gown and band.’’ 

In a word, when I considered myself as having been 
unsuccessful in the Monastery, I was tempted to try 
whether I could not restore, even at the risk of totally 
losing, my so called reputation, by a new hazard — I 
looked round nay library and could not but observe, that, 
from the time of Chaucer to that of Byron, the most 
popular authors had been the most prolific. Even the 
aristarch Johnson allowed that the quality of readiness 
and profusion had a merit in itself, independent of 
the intrinsic value of the composition. Talking of 
Churchill, I believe, who had littler merit in his preju- 
diced eyes, he allowed him that of fertility, with some 
such qualification as this, crab apple can bear but 
crabs after all ; but there is a great difference in favour 
of that which bears a large quantity of fruit, however 
indifferent, and that which produces only a few.” 

Looking more attentively at the patriarchs of liter- 
ature, whose career was as long as it was brilliant, I 
thought I perceived that in the busy and prolonged 
course of exertion, there were no doubt occasional fail- 
ures, but that still those who were favourites of their 
age triumphed over these miscarriages. By the new 
efforts which they made, their errors were obliterated, 
they became identified with the literature of their 


THE ABBOT. 


xxiii 


country, and after having long received law from the 
critics, came in some degree to impose it. And when 
such a writer was at length called from the scene, his 
death first made the public sensible what a large share 
he had occupied in their attention. I recollected a pas- 
sage in Grimm’s Correspondence, that while the unex- 
hausted Voltaire sent forth tract after tract to the very 
close of a long life, the first impression made by each 
as it appeared, was, that it was inferior to its prede- 
cessors ; an opinion adopted from the general idea that 
the Patriarch of Ferney must at last find the point 
from which he was to decline. But the opinion of 
the public finally ranked in succession the last of 
Voltaire’s Essays on the same footing with those which 
had formerly charmed the French nation. The infer- 
ence from this and similar facts seemed to me to be, 
that new works were often judged of by the public, not so 
much from their own intrinsic merit, as from extrinsic 
ideas which readers had previously formed with regard 
to them, and over which a writer might hope to tri- 
umph by patience and by exertion. There is a risk 
in the attempt; 

** If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim.** 

But this is a chance incident to every literary attempt, 
and by which men of a sanguine temper are little 
moved. 

I may illustrate what I mean, by the feelings of 
most men in travelling. If we have found any stage 
particularly tedious, or in an especial degree inter- 
esting, particularly short, or much longer than we ex- 
pected, our imaginations are so apt to exaggerate the 
original impression, that, on repeating the journey, 
we usually find that we have considerably over-rated 
the predominating quality, and the road appears to be 
duller or more pleasant, shorter or more tedious, than 


xxiv 


INTRODUCTION TO 


what we expected, and, consequently, than what is the 
actual case. It requires a third or fourth journey to 
enable us to form an accurate judgment of its beauty, 
its length, or its other attributes. 

In the same manner, the public, judging of a new 
work, which it receives perhaps with little expectation, 
if surprised into applause, becomes very often ecstatic, 
gives a great deal more approbation than is due, and 
elevates the child of its immediate favour to a rank 
which, as it affects the author, it is equally difficult to 
keep, and painful to lose. If, on this occasion, the 
author trembles at the height to which he is raised, and 
becomes afraid of the shadow of his own renown, he 
may indeed retire from the lottery with the prize which 
he has drawn, hut, in future ages, his honour will be only 
in proportion to his labours. If, on the contrary, he 
rushes again into the lists, he is sure to he judged with 
severity proportioned to the former favour of the public. 
If he be daunted by a bad reception on i^is second oc- 
casion, he may again become a stranger to the arena. 
If, on the contrary, he can keep his ground, and stand 
the shuttlecock’s fate, of being struck up and down, he 
will probably, at length, hold with some certainty the 
level in public opinion which he may be found to de- 
serve ; and he may perhaps boast of arresting the gen- 
eral attention, in the same manner as the Bachelor 
Samson Carrasco, of fixing the weathercock La Giralda 
of Seville for weeks, months, or years, that is, for as 
long as the wind shall uniformly blow from one quarter. 
To this degree of popularity the author had the hardi- 
hood to aspire, while, in order to attain it, he assumed 
the daring resolution to keep himself in the view of the 
public by frequent appearances before them. 

It must be added, that the author’s incognito gave 
him the greater courage to renew his attempts to please 
the public, and an advantage similar to that which Jack 


THE ABBOT. 


the Giant-killer received from his coat of darkness, (a) * 
In sending the Abbot forth so soon after the Monastery, 
he had used the well-known practice recommended by 
Bassanio ; — 

“ In my school days, when I had lost one shaft, 

I shot another of the self same flight, 

The self same way, with more advised watch, 

To find the other forth.” 

And, to continue the simile, his shafts, like those of 
the lesser Ajax, were discharged more readily that 
the archer was as inaccessible to criticism, personally 
speaking, as the Grecian archer under his brother's 
sevenfold shield. 

Should the reader desire to know upon what princi- 
ples the Abbot was expected to amend the fortune of 
the Monastery, I have first to request his attention to 
the Introductory Epistle addressed to the imaginary 
Captain Clutterbuck ; a mode by which, like his pre- 
decessors in this walk of fiction, the real author makes 
one of his dramatis personcB the means of communicating 
his own sentiments to the public, somewhat more arti- 
ficially then by a direct address to the readers. A 
pleasing French writer of fairy tales. Monsieur Pa- 
jon, {h) author of the History of Prince Soly, has set a 
diverting example of the same machinery, where he in- 
troduces the presiding Genius of the land of Romance 
conversing with one of the personages of the tale. 

In this Introductory Epistle, the author communi- 
cates, in confidence, to Captain Clutterbuck, his sense 
that the White Lady had not met the taste of the times, 
and his reason for withdrawing her from the scene. 
The author did not deem it equally necessary to be 
candid respecting another alteration. The Monastery 

1 See Editor’s Notes at the end of the Volume. Wherever a 
similar reference occurs, the reader will understand that the same 
direction applies. 


xxvl 


INTRODUCTION TO 


was designed, at first, to have contained some super- 
natural agency, arising out of the fact, that Melrose 
had been the place of deposit of the great Eohert 
Bruce’s heart. The writer shrunk, however, from 
filling up, in this particular, the sketch as it was ori- 
ginally traced; nor did he venture to resume, in the 
continuation, the subject which he had left unattempted 
in the original work. Thus, the incident of the dis- 
covery of the heart, which occupies the greater part of 
the Introduction to the Monastery, is a mystery un- 
necessarily introduced, and which remains at last very 
imperfectly explained. In this particular, I was happy 
to shroud myself by the example of the author of Caleb 
Williams,” who never condescends to inform us of the 
actual contents of that Iron Chest which makes such a 
figure in his interesting work, and gives the name to 
Mr. Colman’s drama. 

The public had some claim to enquire into this 
matter, but it seemed indifferent policy in the author 
to give the explanation. For, whatever praise may be 
due to the ingenuity which brings to a general combina- 
tion all the loose threads of a narrative, like the knitter 
at the finishing of her stocking, I am greatly deceived 
if in many cases a superior advantage is not attained, 
by the air of reality which the deficiency of explanation 
attaches to a work (c) written on a different system. 
In life itself, many things befall every mortal, of 
which the individual never knows the real cause or ori- 
gin ; and were we to point out the most marked dis- 
tinction between a real and a fictitious narrative, we 
would say, that the former, in reference to the remote 
causes of the events it relates, is obscure, doubtful, and 
mysterious ; whereas, in the latter case, it is a part of 
the author’s duty to afford satisfactory details upon the 
causes of the separate events he has recorded, and, in a 
word, to account for every thing. The reader, like 


THE ABBOT. 


xxvii 


Mungo in the Padlock, will not be satisfied with bear- 
ii^ wbat be is not made fully to comprehend. 

I omitted, therefore, in the Introduction to the Abbot, 
any attempt to explain the previous story, or to apol- 
ogize for unintelligibility. 

Neither would it have been prudent to have endeav- 
oured to proclaim, in the Introduction to the Abbot, the 
real spring, by which I hoped it might attract a greater 
degree of interest than its immediate predecessor. A 
taking title, or the announcement of a popular subject, 
is a recipe for success much in favour with book-sellers, 
but which authors will not always find efiicacious. The 
cause is worth a moment’s examination. 

There occur in every country some peculiar historical 
characters, which ara, like a spell or charm, sovereign 
to excite curiosity and attract attention, since every 
one in the slightest degree interested in the land which 
they belong to, has heard much of them, and longs to 
hear more. A tale turning on the fortunes of Alfred 
or Elizabeth in England, or of Wallace or Bruce in 
Scotland, is sure by the very announcement to excite 
public curiosity to a considerable degree, and ensure 
the publishe-r’s being relieved of the greater part of an 
impression, even before the contents of the work are 
known. This is of the last importance to the book- 
seller, who is at once, to use a technical phrase, 

brought home,” all his outlay being repaid. But it 
is a different case with the author, since it cannot be 
denied that we are apt to feel least satisfied with the 
works of which we have been induced, by titles and 
laudatory advertisements, to entertain exaggerated ex- 
pectations. The intention of the work has been an- 
ticipated, and misconceived or misrepresented, and 
although the diificulty of executing the work again re- 
minds us of Hotspur’s task of ‘^o’erwalking a current 
roaring loud,” yet the adventurer must look for more 


xxviii 


INTRODUCTION TO THE ABBOT. 


ridicule if he fails, than applause if he executes, his 
undertaking. 

Notwithstanding a risk, which should make authors 
pause ere they adopt a theme which, exciting general 
interest and curiosity, is often the preparative for dis- 
appointment, yet it would be an injudicious regulation 
which should deter the poet or painter from attempting 
to introduce historical portraits, merely from the diffi- 
culty of executing the task in a satisfactory manner. 
Something must be trusted to the generous impulse, 
which often thrusts an artist upon feats of which he 
knows the difficulty, while he trusts courage and exer- 
tion may afford the means of surmounting it. 

It is especially when he is sensible of losing ground 
with the public, that an author may be justified in 
using with address, such selection of subject or title as 
is most likely to procure a rehearing. It was with 
these feelings of hope and apprehension, that I ven- 
tured to awaken, in a work of fiction, the memory of 
Queen Mary, {d) so interesting by her wit, her beauty, 
her misfortunes, and the mystery which still does, and 
probably always will, overhang her history. In doing 
so, I was aware that failure would be a conclusive dis- 
aster, so that my task was something like that of an 
enchanter who raises a spirit over whom he is uncer- 
tain of possessing an effectual control ; and I naturally 
paid attention to such principles of composition, as I 
conceived were best suited to the historical novel. 

Enough has been already said to explain the purpose 
of composing the Abbot. The historical references are, 
as usual, explained in the notes. That which relates 
to Queen Mary’s escape from Lochleven Castle, is a 
more minute account of that romantic adventure, than 
is to be found in the histories of the period. 

Abbotsford, 

Is/ January f 1831. 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE 


FROM 

THE AUTHOR OF «WAVERLEY/» 

TO 

CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK, 

OP HIS majesty’s — REGIMENT OP INFANTRY. 

Dear Captain, 

I AM sorry to observe, by your last favour, that you 
disapprove of the numerous retrenchments and alter- 
ations which I have been under the necessity of making 
on the Manuscript of your friend, the Benedictine, and 
I willingly make you the medium of apology to many, 
who have honoured me more than I deserve. 

I admit that my retrenchments have been numerous, 
and leave gaps in the story, which, in your original man- 
uscript, would have run wellnigh to a fourth volume, 
as my printer assures me. I am sensible, besides, 
that, in consequence of the liberty of curtailment you 
have allowed me, some parts of the story have been 
huddled up without the necessary details. But, after 
all, it is better that the travellers should have to step 
over a ditch, than to wade through a morass — that the 
reader should have to suppose what may easily be in- 
ferred, than be obliged to creep through pages of dull 
explanation. I have struck out, for example, the 
whole machinery of the White Lady, and the poetry 
by which it is so ably supported, in the original manu- 


3EX:S 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLiD. 


script. But you must allow that the public taste gives 
little encouragement to* those legendary superstitions, 
which formed alternately the delight and the terror of 
our predecessors. In like manner, much is omitted 
illustrative of the impulse of enthusiasm in favour of 
the ancient religion in Mother Magdalen and the 
Abbot. But we do not feel deep sympathy at this 
period with what was once the most powerful and ani- 
mating principle in Europe, with the exception of that 
of the Reformation, by which it was successfully 
opposed. 

You rightly observe, that these retrenchments have 
rendered the title no longer applicable to the subject, 
and that some other would have been more suitable to 
the Work, in its present state, than that of The Abbot, 
who made so much greater figure in the original, and 
for whom your friend, the Benedictine, seems to have 
inspired you with a sympathetic respect. I must 
plead guilty to this accusation, observing, at the same 
time, in manner of extenuation, that though the objec- 
tion might have been easily removed, by giving a new 
title to the Work, yet, in doing so, I should have de- 
stroyed the necessary cohesion between the present his- 
tory, and its predecessor The Monastery, which I was 
unwilling to do, as the period, and several of the per- 
sonages, were the same. 

After all, my good friend, it is of little consequence 
what the work is called, or on what interest it turns, 
provided it catches the public attention ; for the quality 
of the wine ( could we but ensure it ) may, according 
to the old proverb, render the bush unnecessary, or of 
little consequence. 

I congratulate you upon your having found it con- 
sistent with prudence to establish your tilbury, and 
approve of the colour, and of your boy^s livery, (sub- 
dued green and pink. ) — As you talk of completing 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. xxxi 

your descriptive poem on the ‘‘Ruins of Kennaquhair, 
with notes by an Antiquary,” I hope you have pro- 
cured a steady horse. — I remain, with compliments 
to all friends, dear Captain, very much 

Yours, &c. &c. &c. 

The Author of Wavebley 


i 




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ifi.i 


I 


THE ABBOT, 


CHAPTEE I. 

Domum mansit — lanam fecit. 

Ancient Roman Epitaph. 

She keepit close the hous, and birlit at the quhele. 

Gawain Douglas. 

The time which passes over our heads so imper- 
ceptibly, makes the same gradual change in habits, 
manners, and character, as in personal appearance. 
At the revolution of every five years we find our- 
selves another, and yet the same — there is a change 
of views, and no less of the light in which we regard 
them ; a change of motives as well as of actions. 
Nearly twice that space had glided away over the 
head of Halbert Glendinning and his lady, betwixt 
the period of our former narrative, in which they 
played a distinguished part, and the date at which 
our present tale commences. 

Two circumstances only had embittered their 
union, which was otherwise as happy as mutual af- 
fection could render it. The first of these was in- 
deed the common calamity of Scotland, being the 
distracted state of that unhappy country, where 
every man’s sword was directed against his neigh- 
bour’s bosom. Glendinning had proved what Mur- 
ray expected of him, a steady friend, strong in battle, 
and wise in council, adhering to him, from motives 

VOL. I. — 1 


2 


THE ABBOT. 


of gratitude, in situations where by his own un- 
biassed will he would either have stood neuter, or 
have joined the opposite party. Hence, when dan- 
ger was near — and it was seldom far distant — Sir 
Halbert Glendinning, for he now bore the rank of 
knighthood, was perpetually summoned to attend 
his patron on distant expeditions, or on perilous en- 
terprises, or to assist him with his counsel in the 
doubtful intrigues of a half-barbarous court. He 
was thus frequently, and for a long space, absent 
from his castle and from his lady ; and to this 
ground of regret we must add, that their union had 
not been blessed with children, to occupy the atten- 
tion of the Lady of Avenel, while she was thus de- 
prived of her husband’s domestic society. 

On such occasions she lived almost entirely se- 
cluded from the world, within the walls of her pa- 
ternal mansion. Visiting amongst neighbours was 
a matter entirely out of the question, unless on 
occasions of solemn festival, and then it was chiefly 
confined to near kindred. Of these the Lady of 
Avenel had none who survived, and the dames of 
the neighbouring barons affected to regard her less 
as the heiress of the House of Avenel, than as the 
wife of a peasant, the son of a church-vassal, raised 
up to mushroom eminence by the capricious favour 
of Murray. 

This pride of ancestry, which rankled in the bosom 
of the ancient gentry, was more openly expressed by 
their ladies, and was, moreover, embittered not a 
little by the political feuds of the time, for most of 
the Southron chiefs were friends to the authority of 
the Queen, and very jealous of the power of Murray. 
The Castle of Avenel, was, therefore, on all these 
accounts, as melancholy and solitary a residence for 


THE ABBOT. 


3 


its lady as could well be imagined. Still it had the 
essential recommendation of great security. The 
reader is already aware that the fortress was built 
upon an islet in a small lake, and was only accessible 
by a causeway, intersected by a double ditch, de- 
fended by two drawbridges, so that, without artillery, 
it might in those days be considered as impregnable. 
It was only necessary, therefore, to secure against 
surprise, and the service of six able men within the 
castle was sufficient for that purpose. If more seri- 
ous danger threatened, an ample garrison was sup- 
plied by the male inhabitants of a little hamlet, 
which, under the auspices of Halbert Glendinning, 
had arisen on a small piece of level ground, betwixt 
the lake and the hill, nearly adjoining to the spot 
where the causeway joined the mainland. The Lord 
of Avenel had found it an easy matter to procure in- 
habitants, as he was not only a kind and beneficent 
over-lord, but well qualified, both by his experience 
in arms, his high character for wisdom and integrity, 
and his favour with the powerful Earl of Murray, 
to protect and defend those who dwelt under his 
banner. In leaving his castle for any length of 
time, he had, therefore, the consolation to reflect, 
that this village afforded, on the slightest notice, a 
band of thirty stout men, which was more than 
sufficient for its defence ; while the families of the 
villagers, as was usual on such occasions, fled to 
the recesses of the mountains, drove their cattle 
to the same places of shelter, and left the enemy 
to work their will on their miserable cottages. 

One guest only resided generally, if not constantly, 
at the Castle of Avenel. This was Henry Warden, 
who now felt himself less able for the stormy task 
imposed on the reforming clergy ; and having by his 


4 


THE ABBOT. 


zeal given personal offence to many of the leading 
nobles and chiefs, did not consider himself as per- 
fectly safe, unless when within the walls of the 
strong mansion of some assured friend. He ceased 
not, however, to serve his cause as eagerly with his 
pen, as he had formerly done with his tongue, and 
had engaged in a furious and acrimonious contest, 
concerning the sacrifice of the mass, as it was termed, 
with the Abbot Eustatius, formerly the Sub-Prior of 
Kennaquhair. Answers, replies, duplies, triplies, 
quadruplies, followed thick upon each other, and 
displayed, as is not unusual in controversy, fully as 
much zeal as Christian charity. The disputation 
very soon became as celebrated as that of John 
Knox and the Abbot of Crosraguel, raged nearly as 
fiercely, and, for aught I know, the publications to 
which it gave rise may be as precious in the eyes of 
bibliographers.^ But the engrossing nature of his 
occupation rendered the theologian not the most in- 
teresting companion for a solitary female ; and his 
grave, stern, and absorbed deportment, which seldom 
showed any interest except in that which concerned 
his religious profession, made his presence rather 
add to than diminish the gloom which hung over 
the Castle of Avenel. To superintend the tasks of 
'numerous female domestics, was the principal part 
of the Lady’s daily employment ; her spindle and 
distaff, her Bible, and a solitary walk upon the 
battlements of the castle, or upon the causeway, or 
occasionally, but more seldom, upon the banks of 
the little lake, consumed the rest of the day. But 

1 The tracts which appeared in the Disputation between the 
Scottish Reformer and Quentin Kennedy, Abbot of Crosraguel, (e) 
are among the scarcest in Scottish Bibliography. See M’Crie’i 
Life of Knox, p. 258. 


THE ABBOT. 


S 


so great was the insecurity of the period, that when 
she ventured to extend her walk beyond the hamlet, 
the warder on the watch-tower was directed to keep 
a sharp look-out in every direction, and four or five 
men held themselves in readiness to mount and sally 
forth from the castle on the slightest appearance of 
alarm. 

Thus stood affairs at the castle, when, after an 
absence of 'several weeks, the Knight of Avenel, 
which was now the title most frequently given to 
Sir Halbert Glendinning, was daily expected to 
return home. Day after day, however, passed away, 
and he returned not. Letters in those days were 
rarely written, and the Knight must have resorted 
to a secretary to express his intentions in that 
manner; besides, intercourse of all kinds was 
precarious and unsafe, and no man cared to give 
any public intimation of the time and direction of 
a journey, since, if his route were publicly known, 
it was always likely he might in that case meet with 
more enemies than friends upon the road. The 
precise day, therefore, of Sir Halbert’s return was not 
fixed, but that which his lady’s fond expectation had 
calculated upon in her own mind had long since 
passed, and hope delayed began to make the heart 
sick. 

It was upon the evening of a sultry summer’s day, 
when the sun was half sunk behind the distant 
western mountains of Liddesdale, that the Lady 
took her solitary walk on the battlements of a range 
of buildings, which formed the front of the castle, 
where a flat roof of flag-stones presented a broad 
and convenient promenade. The level surface of 
the lake, undisturbed except by the occasional dip- 
ping of a teal-duck, or coot, was gilded with the 


6 


THE ABBOT. 


beams of the setting luminary, and reflected, as if 
in a golden mirror, the hills amongst which it lay 
embosomed. The scene, otherwise so lonely, was 
occasionally enlivened by the voices of the children 
in the village, which, softened by distance, reached 
the ear of the Lady in her solitary walk, or by the 
distant call of the herdsman, as he guided his cattle 
from the glen in which they had pastured all day, 
to place them in greater security for the night, in 
the immediate vicinity of the village. The deep 
lowing of the cows seemed to demand the attend- 
ance of the milk-maidens, who, singing shrilly and 
merrily, strolled forth, each with her pail on her 
head, to attend to the- duty of the evening. The 
Lady of Avenel looked and listened ; the sounds 
which she heard reminded her of former days, when 
her most important employment, as well as her 
greatest delight, was to assist Dame Glendinning 
and Tibb Tacket in milking the cows at Glendearg. 
The thought was fraught with melancholy. 

“ Why was I not,” she said, “ the peasant girl 
which in all men’s eyes I seemed to be ! Halbert 
and I had then spent our life peacefully in his 
native glen, undisturbed by the phantoms either of 
fear or of ambition. His greatest pride had then 
been to show the fairest herd in the Halidome ; his 
greatest danger to repel some pilfering snatcher 
from the Border; and the utmost distance which 
would have divided us, would have been the chase 
of some out-lying deer. But alas ! what avails the 
blood which Halbert has shed, and the dangers 
which he encounters, to support a name and rank, 
dear to him because he has it from me, but which 
we shall never transmit to our posterity 1 — with me 
the name of Avenel must expire.” 


THE ABBOT. 


7 


She sighed as these reflections arose, and, looking 
towards the shore of the lake, her eye was attracted 
by a group of children of various ages, assembled 
to see a little ship, constructed by sdme village 
artist, perform its first voyage on the water. It 
was launched amid the shouts of tiny voices and 
the clapping of little hands, and shot bravely forth 
on its voyage with a favouring wind, which promised 
to carry it to the other side of the lake. Some of 
the bigger boys ran round to receive and secure it 
on the farther shore, trying their speed against each 
other as they sprang like young fawns along the 
shingly verge of the lake. The rest, for whom 
such a journey seemed too arduous, remained watch- 
ing the motions of the fairy vessel from the spot 
where it had been launched. The sight of their 
sports pressed on the mind of the childless Lady 
of Avenel. 

‘•Why are none of these prattlers mine!-” she 
continued, pursuing the tenor of her melancholy 
reflections. “Their parents can scarce find them 
the coarsest food — and I, who could nurse them in 
plenty, I am doomed never to hear a child call me 
mother 1 ” 

The thought sunk on her heart with a bitterness 
which resembled envy, so deeply is the desire of 
offspring implanted in the female breast. She 
pressed her hands together as if she were wringing 
them in the extremity of her desolate feeling, as 
one whom Heaven had written childless. A large 
stag-hound of the greyhound species approached at 
this moment, and, attracted perhaps by the gesture, 
licked her hands and pressed his large head against 
them. He obtained the desired caress in return, 
but still the sad impression remained. 


8 


THE ABBOT. 


Wolf/’ she said, as if the animal could have 
understood her complaints, “thou art a noble and 
beautiful'* animal ; but alas ! the love and affection 
that I lon^o bestow, is of a quality higher than 
can fall to thy share, though I love thee much.” 

And, as if she were apologizing to Wolf for with- 
holding fronf him any part of her regard, she caressed 
his proud head' and crest, while, looking in her eyes, 
he seemed to ask her what she wanted, or what he 
could do to show his attachment. At this moment 
a shriek of distress was heard on the shore, from the 
playful group which had been lately so jovial. The 
Lady looked, and saw the cause with great agony. 

The little ship, the object of the children’s de- 
lighted attention, had stuck among some tufts of 
the plant which bears the water-lily, that marked a 
shoal in the lake about' an arrow-flight from the 
shore. A hardy little boy, who. had taken the lead 
in the race round the margin of the lake, did not 
hesitate a moment to strip off' his wylie-coat, plunge 
into the water, and swim towards the object of their 
common solicitude. The first movement of the Lady 
was to call for help ; but she observed that the boy 
swam strongly and fearlessly, and as she saw that 
one or two villagers, who were distant spectators 
of the incident, seemed to give themselves no un- 
easiness on his account, she supposed that he was 
accustomed to the exercise, and that there was no 
danger. But whether, in swimming, the boy had 
struck his breast against a sunken rock, or whether 
he was suddenly taken with cramp, or whether he 
had over-calculated his own strength, it so hap- 
pened, that when he had disembarrassed the little 
plaything from the flags in which it was entangled, 
and sent it forward on its course, he had scarce 


THE ABBOT. 


9 


swam a few yards in his way to the shore, when he 
raised himself suddenly from the water and screamed 
aloud, clapping his hands at the same time with an 
expression of fear and pain. r 

The Lady of Avenel, instantly taking the alarm, 
called hastily to the attendants to get the boat 
ready. But this was an affair of some time. The 
only boat permitted to be used on the lake was 
moored within the second cut which intersected the 
canal, and it was several minutes ere it could be 
unmoored and got under way. Meantime, the Lady 
of Avenel, with agonizing anxiety, saw that the 
efforts which the poor boy made to keep himself 
afloat, were now exchanged for a faint struggling, 
which would soon have been over, but for aid 
equally prompt and unhoped for. Wolf, who, like 
some of that large species of greyhound, was a prac- 
tised water-dog, had marked the object of her anx- 
iety, and, quitting his mistress’s side, had sought the 
nearest point from which he could with safety plunge 
into the lake. With the wonderful instinct which 
these noble animals ^have so often displayed in the 
like circumstances, he swam straight to the spot 
where his assistance was so much wanted, and seiz- 
ing the child’s under-dress in his mouth, he not only 
kept him afloat, but towed him towards the cause- 
way. The boat, having put off with a couple of 
men, met the dog half-way, and relieved him of his 
burden. They landed on the causeway, close by the 
gate of the castle, with their yet lifeless charge, and 
were there met by the Lady of Avenel, attended 
by one or two of her maidens, eagerly waiting to 
administer assistance to the sufferer. 

He was borne into the castle, deposited upon a 
bed, and every mode of recovery resorted to, which 


10 


THE ABBOT. 


the knowledge of the times, and the skill of Henry 
Warden, who professed some medical science, could 
dictate. For some time it was a^ in vain, and the 
Lady watched with unspeakable earnestness the 
pallid countenance of the beautiful child. He 
seemed about ten years old. His dress was of the 
meanest sort, but his long curled hair, and the noble 
cast of his features, partook not of that poverty of 
appearance. The proudest noble in Scotland might 
have been yet prouder could he have called that 
child his heir. While, with breathless anxiety, the 
Lady of Avenel gazed on his well-formed and ex- 
pressive features, a slight shade of colour returned 
gradually to the cheek; suspended animation be- 
came restored by degrees, the child sighed deeply, 
opened his eyes, which to the human countenance 
produces the effect of light upon the natural land- 
scape, stretched his arms towards the Lady, and 
muttered the word “Mother,” that epithet, of all 
others, which is dearest to the female ear. 

“ God, madam,” said the preacher, “ has restored 
the child to your wishes ; it must be yours so to 
bring him up, that he may not one day wish that 
he had perished in his innocence.” 

“It shall be my charge,” said the Lady; and 
again throwing her arms around the boy, she over- 
whelmed him with kisses and caresses, sO much was 
she agitated by the terror arising from the danger 
in which he had been just placed, and by joy at his 
unexpected deliverance. 

“ But you are not my mother,” said the boy, re- 
covering his recollection, and endeavouring, though 
faintly, to escape from the caresses of the Lady of 
Avenel; “you are not my mother — alas ! I have no 
mother — only I have dreamt that I had one.” 


THE ABBOT. 


II 


“I will read the dream for you, my love,” an- 
swered the Lady of Avenel ; “ and I will be myself 
your mother. Surely God has heard my wishes, 
and, in his own marvellous manner, hath sent me 
an object on which my affections may expand them- 
selves.” She looked towards Warden as she spoke. 
The preacher hesitated what he should reply to a 
hurst of passionate feeling, which, perhaps, seemed 
to him more enthusiastic than the occasion de- 
manded. In the meanwhile, the large stag-hound. 
Wolf, which, dripping wet as he was, had followed 
his mistress into the apartment, and had sate by 
the bedside, a patient and quiet spectator of all the 
means used for resuscitation of the being whom he 
had preserved, now became impatient of remaining 
any longer unnoticed, and began to whine and fawn 
upon the Lady with his great rough paws. 

“Yes,’’ she said, “good Wolf, and you shall be 
remembered also for your day’s work ; and I will 
think the more of you for having preserved the life 
of a creature so beautiful.” 

But Wolf was not quite- satisfied with the share 
of attention which he thus attracted ; he persisted in 
whining and pawing upon his mistress, his caresses 
rendered still more troublesome by his long shaggy 
hair being so much and thoroughly wetted, till she 
desired one 'of the domestics, with whom he was 
familiar, to call the animal out of the apartment. 
Wolf resisted every invitation to this purpose, until 
his mistress positively commanded him to be gone, 
in an angry tone ; when, turning towards the bed on 
which the boy still lay, half awake to sensation, half 
drowned in the meanders of a fluctuating delirium, 
he uttered a deep and savage growl, curled up his 
nose and lips, showing his full range of white and 


12 


THE ABBOT. 


sharpened teeth, which might have matched those 
of an actual wolf, and then, turning round, sullenly 
followed the domestic out of the apartment. 

“It is singular,” said the Lady, addressing War- 
den ; “ the animal is not only so good-natured to all, 
but so particularly fond of children. What can ail 
him at the little fellow whose life he has saved ? ” 

“ Dogs,” replied the preacher, “ are but too like 
the human race in their foibles, though their in- 
stinct be less erring than the reason of poor mortal 
man when relying upon his own unassisted powers. 
Jealousy, my good lady, is a passion not unknown 
to them, and they often evince it, not only with 
respect to the preferences which they see given by 
their masters to individuals of their own species, 
but even when their rivals are children. You have 
caressed that child much and eagerly, and the dog 
considers himself as a discarded favourite.” 

It is a strange instinct,” said the Lady ; “ and 
from the gravity with which you mention it, my 
reverend friend, I would almost say that you sup- 
posed this singular jealousy of my favourite. Wolf, 
was not only well founded, but justifiable. But 
perhaps you speak in jest ? ” 

“I seldom jest,” answered the preacher; “life 
was not lent to us to be expended in that idle mirth 
which resembles the crackling of thorns under the 
pot. I would only have you derive, if it so please 
you, this lesson from what I have said, that the 
best of our feelings, when indulged to excess, may 
give pain to others. There is but one in which we 
may indulge to the utmost limit of vehemence of 
which our bosom is capable, secure that excess can- 
not exist in the greatest intensity to which it can 
be excited — I mean the love of our Maker.” 


THE ABBOT. ’ 


13 


** Surely,” said the Lady of Avenel, "we are 
commanded by the same authority to love our 
neighbour ? ” 

“Ay, madam,” said Warden, "but our love to 
God is to be unbounded — we are to love him with 
our whole heart, our whole soul, and our whole 
strength. The love which the precept commands 
us to bear to our neighbour, has affixed to it a di- 
rect limit and qualification — we are to love our 
neighbour as ourself; as it is elsewhere explained 
by the great commandment, that we must do unto 
him as we would that he should do unto us. Here 
there is a limit, and a bound even to the most 
praiseworthy of our affections, so far as they are 
turned upon sublunary and terrestrial objects. We 
are to render to our neighbour, whatever be his 
rank or degree, that corresponding portion of af- 
fection with which we could rationally expect we 
should ourselves be regarded by those standing in 
the same relation to us. Hence, neither husband 
nor wife, neither son nor daughter, neither friend 
nor relation, are lawfully to be made the objects of 
our idolatry. The Lord our God is a jealous God, 
and will not endure that we bestow on the creature 
that extremity of devotion which He who made us 
demands as his own share. I say to you, Lady, that 
even in the fairest and purest, and most honourable 
feelings of our nature, there is that original taint 
of sin which ought to make us pause and hesitate, 
ere we indulge them to excess.” 

" I understand not this, reverend sir,” said the 
Lady ; " nor do I guess what I can have now said 
or done, to draw down on me an admonition which 
has something a taste of reproof.” 

"Lady,” said Warden, "I crave your pardon, 


H 


TilE ABBOT. 


if I have urged aught beyond the limits of my 
duty. But consider, whether in the sacred promise 
to be not only a protectress, but a mother, to this 
poor child, your purpose may meet the wishes of the 
noble knight your husband. The fondness which 
you have lavished on the unfortunate, and, I own, 
most lovely child, has met something like a re- 
proof in the bearing of your household dog. — Dis- 
please not your noble husband. Men, as well as 
animals, are jealous of the affections of those they 
love.’* 

“ This is too much, reverend sir,” said the Lady 
of Avenel, greatly offended. “ You have been long 
our guest, and have received from the Knight of 
Avenel and myself that honour and regard which 
your character and profession so justly demand. 
But I am yet to learn that we have at any time 
authorized your interference in our family arrange- 
ments, or placed you as a judge of our conduct 
towards each other. I pray this may be forborne 
in future.” 

“Lady,** replied the preacher, with the bold- 
ness peculiar to the clergy of his persuasion at that 
time, “ when you weary of my admonitions — when 
I see that my services are no longer acceptable to 
you, and the noble knight your husband, I shall 
know that my Master wills me no longer to abide 
here ; and, praying for a continuance of his best 
blessings on your family, I will then, were the sea- 
son the depth of winter, and the hour midnight, 
walk out on yonder waste, and travel forth through 
these wild mountains, as lonely and unaided, though 
far more helpless, than when I first met your hus- 
band in the valley of Glendearg. But while I re- 
main here, I will not see you err from the true path, 


THE ABBOT. 


IS 

no, not a hair’s breadth, without mahing the old 
man’s voice and remonstrance heard.” 

“ Nay, but,” said the Lady, who both loved and 
respected the good man, though sometimes a little 
offended at what she conceived to be an exuberant 
degree of zeal, “ we will not part this way, my good 
friend. Women are quick and hasty in their feel- 
ings ; but, believe me, my wishes and my purposes 
towards this child are such as both my husband 
and you will approve of.” The clergyman bowed, 
and retreated to his own apartment. 


CHAPTEK IL 


How steadfastly he fix'd his eyes on me — 

His dark eyes shining through forgotten tears — 

Then stretch’d his little arms, and call’d me mother! 
What could I do 1 I took the bantling home — 

1 could not tell the imp^ he had no mother. 

Count Basil. 


When Warden had left the' apartment, the Lady of 
Avenel gave way to the feelings of tenderness which 
the sight of the boy, his sudden danger, and his re- 
cent escape, had inspired ; and no longer awed by the 
sternness, as she deemed it, of the preacher, heaped 
with caresses the lovely and interesting child. He 
was now, in some measure, recovered from the con- 
sequences of his accident, and received passively, 
though not without wonder, the tokens of kindness 
with which he was thus loaded. The face of the 
lady was strange to him, and her dress different and 
far more sumptuous than any he remembered. But 
the boy was naturally of an undaunted temper ; and 
indeed children are generally acute physiognomists, 
and not only pleased by that which is beautiful in 
itself, but peculiarly quick in distinguishing and re- 
plying to the attentions of those who really love 
them. If they see a person in company, though a 
perfect stranger, who is by nature fond of children, 
the little imps seem to discover it by a sdrt of free- 
masonry, while the awkward attempts of those who 
make advances to them for the purpose of recom- 


THE ABBOT. 


17 


mending themselves to the parents, usually fail in 
attracting their reciprocal attention. The little boy, 
therefore, appeared in some degree sensible of the 
lady's caresses, and it was with difficulty she with- 
drew herself from his pillow, to afford him leisure 
for necessary repose. 

“ To whom belongs our little rescued varlet ? ” was 
the first question which the Lady of Avenel put to 
her handmaiden Lilias, when they had retired to the 

hall. 

“ To an old woman in the hamlet,” said Lilias, “ who 
is even now come so far as the porter s lodge to en- 
quire concerning his safety. Is it your pleasure that 
she be admitted ? ” 

“ Is it my pleasure ? ” said the Lady of Avenel, 
echoing the question with a strong accent of dis- 
pleasure and surprise ; “ can you make any doubt of 
it ? What woman but must pity the agony of the 
mother, whose heart is throbbing for the safety of a 
child so lovely ! ” 

«Nay, but, madam,” said Lilias, “this woman is 
too old to be the mother of the child ; I rather think 
she must be his grandmother, or some more distant 
relation.” 

*‘Be she who she will, Lilias,” replied the Lady, 
« she must have an aching heart while the safety of 
a creature so lovely is uncertain. Go instantly and 
bring her hither. Besides, I would willingly learn 
something concerning his birth.” 

Lilias left the hall, and presently afterwards re- 
turned, ushering in a tall female very poorly dressed, 
yet with more pretension to decency and cleanliness 
than was usually combined with such coarse gar- 
ments. The Lady of Avenel knew her figure the in- 
stant she presented herself. It was the fashion of 

VOL. I. — 2 


i8 


THE ABBOT. 


the family, that upon every Sabbath, and on two eve- 
nings in the week besides, Henry Warden preached 
or lectured in the chapel at the castle. The exten- 
sion of the Protestant faith was, upon principle, as 
well as in good policy, a primary object with the 
Knight of Avenel. The inhabitants of the village 
were therefore invited to attend upon the instruc- 
tions of Henry Warden, and many of them were 
speedily won to the doctrine which their master and 
protector approved. These sermons, homilies, and 
lectures, had made a great impression on the mind 
of the Abbot Eustace, or Eustatius, and were a suf- 
ficient spur to the severity and sharpness of his con- 
troversy with his old fellow-collegiate ; and, ere Queen 
Mary was dethroned, and while the Catholics still had 
considerable authority in the Border provinces, he 
more than once threatened to levy his vassals, and 
assail and level with the earth that stronghold of 
heresy the Castle of Avenel. But notwithstanding 
the Abbot’s impotent resentment, and notwithstand- 
ing also the disinclination of the country to favour 
the new religion, Henry Warden proceeded without 
remission in his labours, and made weekly converts 
from the faith of Eome to that of the reformed 
church. Amongst those who gave most earnest and 
constant attendance on his ministry, was the aged 
woman, whose form, tall, and otherwise too remark- 
able to be forgotten, the Lady had of late observed 
frequently as being conspicuous amongst the little 
audience. She had indeed more than once desired 
to know who that stately-looking woman was, whose 
appearance was so much above the poverty of her 
vestments. But the reply had always been, that she 
was an Englishwoman, who was tarrying for a season 
at the hamlet, and that no one knew more concern- 


THE ABBOT. 


ing her. She now asked her after her name and 
birth. 

“ Magdalen Grseme is my name/' said the woman ; 
“I come of the Graemes of Heathergill, in Mcol- 
forest,^ a people of ancient blood.” 

“ And what make you,” continued the Lady, “ so 
far distant from your home ? ” 

“ I have no home,” said Magdalen Graeme, it was 
burnt by your Border-riders — my husband and my 
son were slain — there is not a drop’s blood left in 
the veins of any one which is of kin to mine.” 

“ That is no uncommon fate in these wild times, 
and in this unsettled land,” said the Lady ; “ the 
English hands have been as deeply dyed in our blood 
as ever those of Scotsmen have been in yours.” 

“ You have right to say it, Lady,” answered Mag- 
dalen Graeme ; “ for men tell of a time when this 
castle was not strong enough to save your father’s 
life, or to afford your mother and her infant a place 
of refuge. And why ask ye me, then, wherefore I 
dwell not in mine own home, and with mine own 
people ? ” 

“ It was indeed an idle question,” answered the 
Lady, “ where misery so often makes wanderers ; 
but wherefore take refuge in a hostile country ? ” 

“My neighbours were Popish and mass-mon- 
gers,” said the old woman ; “ it has pleased Heaven 
to give me a clearer sight of the gospel, and I have 
tarried here to enjoy the ministry of that worthy 
man Henry Warden, who, to the praise and com- 
fort of many, teacheth the Evangel in truth and in 
Bincerity.” 

“ Are you poor ? ” again demanded the Lady of 
Avenel. 

> A district of Cumberland, lying close to the Scottish Border 


20 


THE ABBOT. 


** You hear me ask alms of no one,” answered the 
Englishwoman. 

Here there was a pause. The manner of the 
woman was, if not disrespectful, at least much less 
than gracious; and she appeared to give no en- 
couragement to farther communication. The Lady 
of Avenel renewed the conversation on a different 
topic. 

“You have heard of the danger in which your 
boy has been placed ? ” 

“ I have. Lady, and how by an especial providence 
he was rescued from death. May Heaven make 
him thankful, and me ! ” 

“ What relation do you bear to him ? ” 

“ I am his grandmother. Lady, if it so please you ; 
the only relation he hath left upon earth to take 
charge of him.” 

“The burden of his maintenance must neces- 
sarily be grievous to you in your deserted situa- 
tion ? ” pursued the Lady. 

“ I have complained of it to no one,” said Mag- 
dalen Graeme, with the same unmoved, dry, and un- 
concerned tone of voice, in which she had answered 
all the former questions. 

“ If,” said the Lady of Avenel, “ your grand- 
child could be received into a noble family, would 
it not advantage both him and you ? ” 

“ Keceived into a noble family ! ” said the old 
woman, drawing herself up, and bending her brows 
until her forehead was wrinkled into a frown of 
unusual severity ; “ and for what purpose, I pray 
you ? — to be my lady’s page, or my lord’s jackman, 
to eat broken victuals, and contend with other me- 
nials for the remnants of the master’s meal ? Would 
you have him to fan the flies from my lady’s face 


THE ABBOT. 


21 


while she sleeps, to carry her train while she walks, 
to hand her trencher when she feeds, to ride before 
her on horseback, to walk after her on foot, to sing 
when she lists, and to be silent when she bids ? — a 
very weathercock, which, though furnished in ap- 
pearance with wings and plumage, cannot soar into 
the air — cannot fly from the spot where it is perched, 
but receives all its impulses, and performs all 
its revolutions, obedient to the changeful breath 
of a vain woman? When the eagle of Helvellyn 
perches on the tower of Lanercost, and turns and 
changes his place to show how the wind sits, 
Boland Graeme shall be what you would make 
him.” 

The woman spoke with a rapidity and vehemence 
which seemed to have in it a touch of insanity ; and 
a sudden sense of the danger to which the child 
must necessarily be exposed in the charge of such 
a keeper, increased the Lady’s desire to keep him 
in the castle if possible. 

“You mistake me, dame,” she said, addressing 
the old woman in a soothing manner ; “ I do not 
wish your boy to be in attendance on myself, but 
upon the good knight, my husband. Were he him- 
self the son of a belted earl, he could not better be 
trained to arms, and all that befits a gentleman, than 
by the instructions and discipline of Sir Halbert 
Glendinning.” 

“ Ay,” answered the old woman, in the same style 
of bitter irony, “ I know the wages of that service ; 

— a curse when the corslet is not sufficiently bright- 
ened, — a blow when the girth is not tightly drawn, 

— to be beaten because the hounds are at fault, — 
to be reviled because the foray is unsuccessful, — 
to stain his hands for the master’s bidding in the 


22 


THE ABBOT. 


blood alike of beast and of man, — to be a butcher 
of harmless deer, a murderer and defacer of God’s 
own image, not at his own pleasure, but at that of 
his lord ; to live a brawling ruffian, and a common 
stabber, — exposed to heat, to cold, to want of food, 
to all the privations of an anchoret, not for the love 
of God, but for the service of Satan, — to die by the 
gibbet, or in some obscure skirmish, — to sleep out 
his brief life in carnaT security, and to awake in the 
eternal fire which is never quenched.” 

“ Nay,” said the Lady of Avenel, “ but to such 
unhallowed course of life your grandson will not be 
here exposed. My husband is just and kind to 
those who live under his .banner ; and you yourself 
well know, that youth have here a strict as well as 
a good preceptor in the person of our chaplain.” 

The old woman appeared to pause. 

“You have named,” she said, “the only circum- 
stance which can move me. I must soon onward, 
the vision has said it — I must not tarry in the same 
spot — I must on — I must on, it is my weird. — 
Swear, then, that you will protect the boy as if he 
were your own, until I return hither and claim him, 
and I will consent for a space to part with him. 
But especially swear, he shall not lack the instruc- 
tion of the godly man who hath placed the gospel- 
truth high above those idolatrous shavelings, the 
monks and friars.” 

“ Be satisfied, dame,” said the Lady of Avenel ; 
“the boy shall have as much care as if he were born 
of my own blood. Will you see him now ? ” 

“No,” answered the old woman, sternly; “to 
part is enough. I go forth on my own mission. I 
will not soften my heart by useless tears and wail- 
ings, as one that is not called to a duty.” 


THE ABBOT. 


23 


“ Will you not accept of something to aid you in 
your pilgrimage ? ” said the Lady of Avenel, put- 
ting into her hand two crowns of the sun. The 
old woman flung them down on the table. 

“ Am I of the race of Cain ” she said, “ proud 
Lady, that you offer me gold in exchange for my 
own flesh and blood ? ” 

“ I had no such meaning,” said the Lady, gently ; 
“ nor am I the proud woman you term me. Alas ! 
my own fortunes might have taught me humility, 
even had it not been horn with me.” 

The old woman seemed somewhat to relax her 
tone of severity. 

« You are of gentle blood,” she said, “ else we had 
not parleyed thus long together. — You are of gentle 
blood, and to such,” she added, drawing up her tall 
form as she spoke, “ pride is as graceful as is the 
plume upon the bonnet. But for these pieces of 
gold. Lady, you must needs resume them. I need 
not money. I am well provided ; and I may not 
care for myself, nor think how, or by whom, I shall 
be sustained. Farewell, and keep your word. Cause 
your gates to be opened, and your bridges to be 
lowered. I will set forward this very night. When 
I come again, I will demand from you a strict ac- 
count, for I have left with you the jewel of my life ! 
Sleep will visit me but in snatches, food will not 
refresh me, rest will not restore my strength, until 
I see Koland Graeme. Once more, farewell.” 

“Make your obeisance, dame,” said Lilias to 
Magdalen Graeme, as she retired, “ make your obei- 
sance to her ladyship, and thank her for her good- 
ness, as is but fitting and right.” 

The old woman turned short round on the officious 
waiting-maid. “ Let her make her obeisance to me 


24 


THE ABBOT. 


then, and I will return it. Why should I bend to 
her ? — is it because her kirtle is of silk, and mine of 
blue lockeram ? — Go to, my lady’s waiting-woman. 
Know that the rank of the man rates that of the 
wife, and that she who marries a churl’s son, were 
she a king’s daughter, is but a peasant’s bride.” 

Lilias was about to reply in great indignation, 
but her mistress imposed silence on her, and com- 
manded that the old woman should be safely con- 
ducted to the mainland. 

“ Conduct her safe ! ” exclaimed the incensed 
waiting- woman, while Magdalen Graeme left the 
apartment ; “ I say, duck her in the loch, and then 
we will see whether she is witch or not, as every 
body in the village of Lochside will say and swear. 
I marvel your ladyship could bear so long with her 
insolence.” But the commands of the lady were 
obeyed, and the old dame, dismissed from the castle, 
was committed to her fortune. She kept her word, 
and did not long abide in that place, leaving the 
hamlet on the very night succeeding the interview, 
and wandering no one asked whither. The Lady of 
Avenel enquired under what circumstances she had 
appeared among them, but could only learn that she 
was believed to be the widow of some man of con- 
sequence among the Graeme’s who then inhabited 
the Debateable Land, a name given to a certain 
portion of territory which was the frequent subject 
of dispute betwixt Scotland and England — that she 
had suffered great wrong in some of the frequent 
forays by which that unfortunate district was wasted, 
and had been driven from her dwelling-place. She 
had arrived in the hamlet no one knew for what 
purpose, and was held by some to be a witch, by 
others a zealous Protestant, and by others again a 


THE ABBOT. 


25 


Catholic devotee. Her language was mysterious, 
and her manners repulsive ; and all that could he 
collected from her conversation seemed to imply 
that she was under the influence either of a spell or 
of a vow, — there was no saying which, since she 
talked as one who acted under a powerful and ex- 
ternal agency. 

Such were the particulars which the Lady’s en- 
quiries were able to collect concerning Magdalen 
Graeme, being far too meagre and contradictory to 
authorize any satisfactory deduction. In truth, the 
miseries of the time, and the various turns of fate 
incidental to a frontier country, were perpetually 
chasing from their habitations those who had not 
the means of defence or protection. These wan- 
derers in the land were too often seen, to excite 
much attention or sympathy. They received the 
cold relief which was extorted by general feelings 
of humanity ; a little excited in some breasts, and 
perhaps rather chilled in others, by the recollection 
that they who gave the charity to-day might them- 
selves want it to-morrow. Magdalen Graeme, there- 
fore, came and departed like a shadow from the 
neighbourhood of Avenel Castle. 

The boy whom Providence, as she thought, had 
thus strangely placed under her care, was at once 
established a favourite with the Lady of the castle. 
How could it be otherwise ? He became the object 
of those affectionate feelings, which, finding formerly 
no object on which to expand themselves, had in- 
creased the gloom of the castle, and embittered the 
solitude of its mistress. To teach him reading and 
writing as far as her skill went, to attend to his 
childish comforts, to watch his boyish sports, be- 
came the Lady’s favourite amusement. In her cir- 


26 


THE ABBOT. 


cumstances, where the ear only heard the lowing of 
the cattle from the distant hills, or the heavy step 
of the warder as he walked upon his post, or the 
half-envied laugh of her maiden as she turned her 
wheel, the appearance of the blooming and beauti- 
ful boy gave an interest which can hardly be con- 
ceived by those who live amid gayer or busier scenes. 
Young Eoland was to the Lady of Avenel what the 
flower, which occupies the window of some solitary 
captive, is to the poor wight by whom it is nursed 
and cultivated, — something which at once excited 
and repaid her care; and in giving the boy her 
affection, she felt, as it were, grateful to him for 
releasing her from the state of dull apathy in which 
she had usually found herself during the absence 
of Sir Halbert Glendinning. 

But even the charms of this blooming favourite 
were unable to chase the recurring apprehensions 
which arose from her husband’s procrastinated re- 
turn. Soon after Eoland Grseme became a resident 
at the castle, a groom, dispatched by Sir Halbert, 
brought tidings that business of importance still 
delayed the Knight at the Court of Holyrood. The 
more distant period which the messenger had as- 
signed for his master’s arrival at length glided away, 
summer melted into autumn, and autumn was about 
to give place to winter, and yet he came not. 


CHAPTER III. 


The waning harvest-moon shone broad and bright, 

The warder’s horn was heard at dead of night, 

And while the folding portals wide were flung, 

With trampling hoofs the rocky pavement rung. 

Leyden. 

“ And you, too, would be a soldier, Eoland ? ” said 
the Lady of Avenel to her young charge, while, 
seated on a stone chair at one end of the battle- 
ments, she saw the boy attempt, with a long stick, 
to mimic the motions of the warder, as he alter- 
nately shouldered, or ported, or sloped pike. 

“ Yes, Lady,” said the boy, — for he was now 
familiar, and replied to her questions with readi- 
ness and alacrity, — “a soldier will I be ; for there 
ne’er was gentleman but who belted him with the 
brand.” 

“ Thou a gentleman I ” said Lilias, who, as usual, 
was in attendance ; “ such a gentleman as I would 
make of a bean-cod with a rusty knife.” 

“ Nay, chide him not, Lilias,” said the Lady of 
Avenel, “ for, beshrew me, but I think he comes of 
gentle blood — see how it musters in his face at 
your injurious reproof.” 

“ Had I my will, madam,” answered Lilias, “ a 
good birchen wand should make his colour muster 
to better purpose still.” 

“ On my word, Lilias,” said the Lady, “ one would 
think you had received harm from the poor boy — 


28 


THE ABBOT. 


or is he so far on the frosty side of your favour be- 
cause he enjoys the sunny side of mine ? ” 

“ Over heaven’s forbode, my Lady ! ” answered 
Lilias ; “ I have lived too long with gentles, I praise 
my stars for it, to fight with either follies or fanta- 
sies, whether they relate to beast, bird, or boy.” 

Lilias was a favourite in her own class, a spoiled 
domestic, and often accustomed to take more license 
than her mistress was at all times willing to encour- 
age. 'But what did not please the Lady of Ave- 
nel, she did not choose to hear, and thus it was on 
the present occasion. She resolved to look more 
close and sharply after the boy, who had hitherto 
been committed chiefly to the management of Lil- 
ias. He must, she thought, be born ot gentle 
blood ; it were shame to think otherwise of a form 
so noble, and features so fair ; — the very wildness 
in which he occasionally indulged, his contempt of 
danger, and impatience of restraint, had in them 
something noble ; — assuredly the child was born of 
high rank. Such was her conclusion, and she acted 
upon it accordingly. The domestics around her, 
less jealous, or less scrupulous than Lilias, acted as 
servants usually do, following the bias, and flat- 
tering, for their own purposes, the humour of the 
Lady ; and the boy soon took on him those airs of 
superiority, which the sight of habitual deference 
seldom fails to inspire. It seemed, in truth, as if to 
command were his natural sphere, so easily did he 
use himself to exact and receive compliance with 
his humours. The chaplain, indeed, might have 
interposed to check the air of assumption which 
Eoland Graeme so readily indulged, and most prob- 
ably would have willingly rendered him that fav- 
our ; but the necessity of adjusting with his h^eth- 


THE ABBOT. 


29 


ren some disputed points of churcli discipline had 
withdrawn him for some time from the castle, and 
detained him in a distant part of the kingdom. 

Matters stood thus in the Castle of Avenel, when 
a winded bugle sent its shrill and prolonged notes 
from the shore of the lake, and was replied to 
cheerily by the signal of the warder. The Lady of 
Avenel knew the sounds of her husband, and rushed 
to the window of the apartment in which she was 
sitting. A band of about thirty spearmen, with 
a pennon displayed before them, winded along the 
indented shores of the lake, and approached the 
causeway. A single horseman rode at the head of 
the party, his bright arms catching a glance of the 
October sun as he moved steadily along. Even at 
that distance, the Lady recognised the lofty plume, 
bearing the mingled colours of her own liveries and 
those of Glendonwyne, blended with the holly- 
branch ; and the firm seat and dignified demeanour 
of the rider, joined to the stately motion of the 
dark-brown steed, sufficiently announced Halbert 
Glendinning. 

The Lady’s first thought was that of rapturous joy 
at her husband’s return — her second was connected 
with a fear which had sometimes intruded itself, 
that he might not altogether approve the peculiar 
distinction with which she had treated her orphan 
ward. In this fear there was implied a conscious- 
ness, that the favour she had shown him was ex- 
cessive ; for Halbert Glendinning was at least’ as 
gentle and indulgent, as he was firm and rational 
in the intercourse of his household ; and to her in 
particular, his conduct had ever been most affec- 
tionately tender. 

Yet she did fear, that, on the present occasion, 


30 


THE ABBOT. 


her conduct might incur Sir Halbert’s censure ; and 
hastily resolving that she would not mention the 
anecdote of the boy until the next day, she ordered 
him to be withdrawn from the apartment by Lilias. 

“I will not go with Lilias, madam,” answered 
the spoiled child, who had more than once carried 
his point by perseverance, and who, like his betters, 
delighted in the exercise of such authority, — “I 
will not go to Lilias’s gousty room — I will stay and 
see that brave warrior who comes riding so gallantly 
along the drawbridge.” 

“ You must not stay, Eoland,” said the Lady, 
more positively than she usually spoke to her little 
favourite. 

“ I will,” reiterated the boy, who had already felt 
his consequence, and the probable chance of success. 

“You will, Eoland!” answered the Lady, “what 
manner of word is that ? I tell you, you must go.” 

“ Will!’ answered the forward boy, “ is a word 
for a man, and must is no word for a lady.” 

“You are saucy, sirrah,” said the Lady — “Lilias,^ 
take him with you instantly.” 

“I always thought,” said Lilias, smiling, as she 
seized the reluctant boy by the arm, “that my 
young master must give place to my old one.” 

“ And you, too, are malapert, mistress ? ” said the 
Lady ; “ hath the moon changed, that ye all of you 
thus forget yourselves ? ” 

Lilias made no reply, but led off the boy, who, 
too 'proud to offer unavailing resistance, darted at 
his benefactress a glance, which intimated plainly, 
how willingly he would have defied her authority, 
had he possessed the power to make good his point 

The Lady of Avenel was vexed to find how much 
this trifling circumstance had discomposed her, at 


THE ABBOT. 


31 


the moment when she ought naturally to have been 
entirely engrossed by her husband’s return. But 
we do not recover composure by the mere feeling 
that agitation is mistimed. The glow of displea- 
sure had not left the Lady’s cheek, her ruffled de- 
portment was not yet entirely composed, when her 
husband, unhelmeted, but still wearing the rest of 
his arms, entered the apartment. His appearance 
banished the thoughts of every thing else; she 
rushed to him, clasped his iron-sheathed frame in 
her arms, and kissed his martial and manly face with 
an affection which was at once evident and sincere. 
The warrior returned her embrace and her caress 
with the same fondness; for the time which had 
passed since their union had diminished its romantic 
ardour, perhaps, but it had rather increased its ra- 
tional tenderness, and Sir Halbert Glendinning s 
long and frequent absences from his castle had pre- 
vented affection from degenerating by habit into 
indifference. 

When the first eager greetings were paid and 
received, the lady gazed fondly on her husband s 
face as she remarked — “You are altered. Halbert 
— you have ridden hard and far to-day, or you have 

been ill?” ^ 

“ I have been well, Mary,” answered the Knight, 
“passing well have I been; and a long ride is to 
me, thou well knowest, but a thing of constant cus- 
tom. Those who are born noble may slumber out 
their lives within the walls of their castles and 
manor-houses ; but he who hath achieved nobility 
by his own deeds must ever be in the saddle, to 
show that he merits his advancement. 

While he spoke thus, the Lady gazed fondly on 
him, as if endeavouring to read his inmost soul ; for 


32 


THE ABBOT. 


the tone in which he spoke was that of melancholy 
depression. 

Sir Halbert Glendinning was the same, yet a differ- 
ent person from what he had appeared in his early 
years. The fiery freedom of the aspiring youth had 
given place to the steady and stern composure of 
the approved soldier and skilful politician. There 
were deep traces of care on those noble features, 
over which each emotion used formerly to pass, like 
light clouds across a summer sky. That sky was 
now, not perhaps clouded, but still and grave, like 
that of the sober autumn evening. The forehead 
was higher and more bare than in early youth, and 
the locks which still clustered thick and dark on the 
warrior’s head, were worn away at the temples, not 
l^y but by the constant pressure of the steel 
cap, or helmet. His beard, according to the fashion 
of the times, grew short and thick, and was turned 
into mustaches on the upper lip, and peaked at the 
extremity. The cheek, weatherbeaten and em- 
browned, had lost the glow of youth, but showed 
the vigorous complexion of active and confirmed 
manhood. Halbert Glendinning was, in a word, a 
knight to ride at a king’s right hand, to bear his 
banner in war, and to be his counsellor in time of 
peace ; for his lobks expressed the considerate firm- 
ness which can resolve wisely and dare boldly. 
Still, over these noble features, there now spread an 
air of dejection, of which, perhaps, the owner was 
not conscious, but which did not escape the obser- 
vation of his anxious and affectionate partner. 

“ Something has happened, or is about to happen,” 
said the Lady of Avenel ; “ this sadness sits not on 
your brow without cause — misfortune, national oi 
particular, must needs be at hand.” 


THE ABBOT. 


33 


** There is nothing new that I wot of,” said Hal- 
bert Glendinning ; “ but there is little of evil which 
can befall a kingdom, that may not be apprehended 
in this unhappy and divided realm.” 

“ Nay, then,” said the Lady, I see there hath 
really been some fatal work on foot. My Lord of 
Murray has not so long detained you at Holyrood, 
save that he wanted your help in some weighty 
purpose.” 

“ I have not been at Holyrood, Mary,” answered 
the Knight ; “ I have been several weeks abroad.” 

“ Abroad ! and sent me no word ? ” replied the 
Lady. 

“ What would the knowledge have availed, but 
to have rendered you unhappy, my love ? ” replied 
the Knight ; “ your thoughts would have converted 
the slightest breeze that curled your own lake, into 
a tempest raging in the German ocean.” 

And have you then really crossed the sea ? ” 
said the Lady, to whom the very idea of an element 
which she had never seen conveyed notions of terror 
and of wonder, — “ really left your own native land, 
and trodden distant shores, where the Scottish 
tongue is unheard and unknown ? ” 

“ Eeally, and really,” said the Knight, taking her 
hand in affectionate playfulness, “ I have done this 
marvellous deed — have rolled on the ocean for three 
days and three nights, with the deep green waves 
dashing by the side of my pillow, and but a thin 
plank to divide me from it.” 

“ Indeed, my Halbert,” said the Lady, " that was 
a tempting of Divine Providence. I never bade 
you unbuckle the sword from your side, or lay the 
lance from your hand — I never bade you sit still 
when your honour called you to rise and ride ; but 

VOL. I. — 3 


34 


THE ABBOT. 


are not blade and spear dangers enough for one 
man’s life, and why would you trust rough waves 
and raging seas ? ” 

“ We have in Germany, and in the Low Coun- 
tries, as they are called,” answered Glendinning, 
“ men who are united with us in faith, and with 
whom it is fitting we should unite in alliance. To 
some of these I was dispatched on business as im- 
portant as it was secret. I went in safety, and I 
returned in security ; there is more danger to a 
man’s life betwixt this and Holyrood, than in all 
the seas that wash the lowlands of Holland.” 

“ And the country, my Halbert, and the people,” 
said the Lady, “are they like our kindly Scots ? or 
what bearing have they to strangers ? ” 

“ They are a people, Mary, strong in their wealth, 
which renders all other nations weak, and weak in 
those arts of war by which other nations are strong.” 

“ I do not understand you,” said the Lady. 

“ The Hollander and the Fleming, Mary, pour 
forth their spirit in trade, and not in war; their 
wealth purchases them the arms of foreign soldiers, 
by whose aid they defend it. They erect dikes on 
the sea-shore to protect the land which they have 
won, and they levy regiments of the stubborn Swit- 
zers and hardy Germans to protect the treasures 
which they have amassed. And thus they are strong 
in their weakness ; for the very wealth which tempts 
their masters to despoil them, arms strangers in their 
behalf.” 

“ The slothful hinds ! ” exclaimed Mary, thinking 
and feeling like a Scotswoman of the period ; “ have 
they hands, and fight not for the land which bore 
them ? They should be notched off at the elbow ! ” 

“Nay, that were but hard justice,” answered het 


THE ABBOT. 


35 


husband ; “ for their hands serve their country, 
though not in battle, like ours. Look at these 
barren hills, Mary, and at that deep winding vale 
by which the cattle are even now returning from 
their scanty browse. The hand of the industrious 
Fleming would cover these mountains with wood, 
and raise corn where we now see a starved and 
scanty sward of heath and ling. It grieves me, Mary, 
when I look on that land, and think what benefit it 
might receive from su^h men as I have lately seen 
— men who seek not the idle fame derived from 
dead ancestors, or the bloody renown won in mod- 
ern broils, but tread along the land as preservers 
and improvers, not as tyrants and destroyers.” 

“ These amendments would here be but a vain 
fancy, my Halbert,” answered the Lady of Avenel ; 
“ the trees would be burnt by the English foemen, 
ere they ceased to be shrubs, and the grain that you 
raised would be gathered in by the first neighbour 
that possessed more riders than follow your train. 
Why should you repine at this? The fate that 
made you Scotsman by birth, gave you head, and 
heart, and hand, to uphold the name as it must 
needs be upheld.” 

“ It gave me no name to uphold ” — said Halbert, 
pacing the floor slowly ; “ my arm has been fore- 
most in every strife — my voice has been heard in 
every council, nor have the wisest rebuked me. The 
crafty Lethington,.the deep and dark Morton, have 
held secret council with me, and Grange and Lind- 
say have owned, that in the field I did the devoir 
of a gallant knight — but let the emergence be 
passed when they need my head and hand, and they 
only know me as son of the obscure portioner of 
Glendearg.” 


36 


THE ABBOT. 


This was a theme which the Lady always 
dreaded; for the rank conferred on her husband, 
the favour in which he was held by the powerful 
Earl of Murray, and the high talents by which he 
vindicated his right to that rank and that favour, 
were qualities which rather increased than dimin- 
ished the envy which was harboured against Sir 
Halbert Glendinning among a proud aristocracy, as 
a person originally of inferior and obscure birth, 
who had risen to his present eminence solely by his 
personal merit. The natural firmness of his mind 
did not enable him to despise the ideal advantages 
of a higher pedigree, which were held in such uni- 
versal esteem by all with whom he conversed ; and 
so open are the noblest minds to jealous inconsist- 
encies, that there were moments in which he felt mor- 
tified that his lady should possess those advantages 
of birth and high descent which he himself did not 
enjoy, and regretted that his importance as the pro- 
prietor of Avenel was qualified by his possessing it 
only as the husband of the heiress. He was not so 
unjust as to permit any unworthy feelings to retain 
permanent possession of his mind, but yet they re- 
curred from time to time, and did not escape his 
lady’s anxious observation. 

“ Had we been blessed with children,” she was 
wont on such occasions to say to herself, “had our 
blood been united in a son who might have joined 
my advantages of descent with my husband’s per- 
sonal worth, these painful and irksome ijeflections 
had not disturbed our union even for a ;moment. 
But the existence of such an heir, in whom our 
affections, as well as our pretensions, might have 
centred, has been denied to us.” 

With such mutual feelings, it cannot be wondered 


THE ABBOT. 


37 


that it gave the Lady pain to hear her husband 
verging towards this topic of mutual discontent. 
On the present, as on other similar occasions, she 
endeavoured to divert the Knight’s thoughts from 
this painful channel. 

“How can you,” she said, “suffer yourself to 
dwell upon things which profit nothing? Have 
you indeed no name to uphold? You, the good and 
the brave, the wise in council and the strong in 
battle, have you not to support the reputation your 
own deeds have won, a reputation more honourable 
than mere ancestry can supply ? Good men love 
and honour you, the wicked fear, and the turbulent 
obey you ; and is it not necessary you should exert 
yourself to ensure the endurance of that love, that 
honour, that wholesome fear, and that necessary 
obedience ? ” 

As she thus spoke, the eye of her husband caught 
from hers courage and comfort, and it lightened as 
he took her hand and replied, “ It is most true, my 
Mary, and I deserve thy rebuke, who forget what 
I am, in repining because I am not what I cannot 
be. I am now what the most famed ancestors of 
those I envy were, the mean man raised into emi- 
nence by his own exertions ; and sure it is a boast 
as honourable to have those capacities which are 
necessary to the foundation of a family, as to be 
descended from one who possessed them some cen- 
turies before. The Hay of Loncarty,(/) who be- 
queathed his bloody yoke to his lineage, -- the dark 
grey man,’ who first founded the house of Dougks, 
had yet less of ancestry to boast than I have. Tor 
thou knowest, Mary, that my name derives itself 
from a line of ancient warriors, although my imme- 
diate forefathers preferred the humble station in 


38 


THE ABBOT. 


which thou didst first find them ; and war and coun- 
sel are not less proper to the house of Glendon- 
wyne, even in its most remote descendants, than to 
the proudest of their baronage.” ^ 

He strode across the hall as he spoke ; and the 
Lady smiled internally to observe how much his 
mind dwelt upon the prerogatives of birth, and en- 
deavoured to establish his claims, however remote, 
to a share in them, at the very moment when he 
affected to hold them in contempt. It will easily 
be guessed, however, that she permitted no symptom 
to escape her that could show she was sensible of 
the weakness of her husband, a perspicacity which 
perhaps his proud spirit could not very easily have 
brooked. 

As he returned from the extremity of the hall, to 
which he had stalked while in the act of vindi- 
cating the title of the House of Glendonwyne in its 
most remote branches to the full privileges of aristo- 
cracy, “Where,” he said, “is Wolf? I have not 
seen him since my return, and he was usually the 
first to welcome my home-coming.” 

“ Wolf,” said the Lady, with a slight degree of 
embarrassment, for which, perhaps, she would have 
found it difficult to assign any reason even to her- 
self — “ Wolf is chained up for the present. He 
hath been surly to my page.” 

“Wolf chained up — and Wolf surly to your 
page ! ” answered Sir Halbert Glendinning ; “ Wolf 
never was surly to any one; and the chain will 
either break his spirit or render him savage — So 
ho, there — set Wolf free directly.” 

He was obeyed; and the huge dog rushed into 


1 Note I. — Glendonwyne of Glendonwyne. 


THE ABBOT. 


39 


the hall, disturbing, by his unwieldy and boisterous 
gambols, the whole economy of reels, rocks, and 
distaffs, with which the maidens of the household 
were employed when the arrival of their lord was a 
signal to them to withdraw, and extracting from 
Lilias, who was summoned to put them again in 
order, the natural observation, “ That the laird’s pet 
was as troublesome as the lady’s page.” 

“ And who is this page, Mary ? ” said the Knight, 
his attention again called to the subject by the ob- 
servation of the waiting-woman, — “ Who is this 
page, whom every one seems to weigh in the balance 
with my old friend and favourite. Wolf ?— When 
did you aspire to the dignity of keeping a page, or 
who is the boy ? ” 

« I trust, my Halbert,” said the Lady, not without 
a blush, “ you will not think your wife entitled to 
less attendance than other ladies of her quality ? ” 

“ Nay, Dame Mary,” answered the Knight, “it is 
enough you desire such an attendant. — Yet I have 
never loved to nurse such useless menials — a lady’s 
page — it may well suit the proud English dames 
to have a slender youth to bear their trains from 
bower to hall, fan them when they slumber, and 
touch the lute for them when they please to listen ; 
but our Scottish matrons were wont, to be above 
such vanities, and our Scottish youth ought to be 
bred to the spear and the stirrup.” 

“Nay, but, my husband,” said the Lady, “I did 
but jest when I called this boy my page ; he is in 
sooth a little orphan whom we saved from perishing 
in the lake, and whom I have since kept in the 
castle out of charity. — Lilias, bring little Eoland 

hither.” -in* 4. 4.x. 

Eoland entered accordingly, and, flying to the 


40 


THE ABBOT. 


Lady’s side, took hold of the plaits of her gown, and 
then turned round, and gazed with an attention, not 
unmingled with fear, upon the stately form of the 
Knight. — “ Koland,” said the Lady, " go kiss the 
hand of the noble Knight, and ask him to he thy 
protector.” — But Roland obeyed not, and, keeping 
his station, continued to gaze fixedly and timidly on 
Sir Halbert Glendinning. — “ Go to the Knight, 
boy,” said the Lady ; what dost thou fear, child ? 
Go, kiss Sir Halbert’s hand.” 

I will kiss no hand save yours, lady,” answered 
the boy. 

“ Hay, but do as you are commanded, child,” re- 
plied the Lady. — “ He is dashed by your presence,” 
she said, apologizing to her husband; “but is he 
not a handsome boy?” 

“ And so is Wolf,” said Sir Halbert, as he patted 
his huge four-footed favourite, “ a handsome dog ; 
but he has this double advantage over your new 
favourite, that he does what he is commanded, and 
hears not when he is praised.” 

“ Hay, now you are displeased with me,” replied 
the Lady ; “ and yet why should you be so ? There 
is nothing wrong in relieving the distressed orphan, 
or in loving that which is in itself lovely and de- 
serving of affection. But you have seen Mr. War- 
den at Edinburgh, and he has set you against the 
poor boy.” 

“ My dear Mary,” answered her husband, “ Mr. 
Warden better knows his place than to presume to 
interfere either in your affairs or in mine. I neither 
blame your relieving this boy, nor your kindness for 
him. But, I think, considering his birth and pros- 
pects, you ought not to treat him with injudicious 
fondness, which can only end in rendering him un- 


THE ABBOT. 


41 

fit for the humble situation to which Heaven has 
designed him.” 

“ Nay, but, my Halbert, do but look at the boy,’ 
said the Lady, “ and see whether he has not the air 
of being intended by Heaven for something nobler 
than a mere peasant. May he not be designed, as 
others have been, to rise out of a humble situation 
into honour and eminence ? ” 

Thus far had she proceeded, when the conscious- 
ness that she was treading upon delicate ground at 
once occurred to her, and induced her to take the 
most natural, but the worst of all courses on such 
occasions, whether in conversation or in an actual 
bog, namely, that of stopping suddenly short in the 
illustration which she had commenced. Her brow 
crimsoned, and that of Sir Halbert Glendinning was 
slightly overcast. But it was only for an instant ; 
for he was incapable of mistaking his lady’s mean- 
ing, or supposing that she meant intentional dis- 
respect to him. 

“ Be it as you please, my love,” he replied ; “ I 
owe you too much, to contradict you in aught 
which may render your solitary mode of life more 
endurable. Make of this youth what you will, and 
you have my full authority for doing so. But 
remember he is your charge, not mine — remember 
he hath limbs to do man service, a soul and a tongue 
to worship God ; breed him, therefore, to be true 
to his country, and to Heaven ; and for the rest, 
dispose of him as you list — it is, and shall rest, 
your own matter.” 

This conversation decided the fate of Roland 
Graeme, who from thenceforward was little noticed 
by the master of the mansion of Avenel, but in- 
dulged and favoured by its mistress. 


42 


THE ABBOT. 


This situation led to many important conse- 
quences, and, in truth, tended to bring forth the char* 
acter of the youth in all its broad lights and deep 
shadows. As the Knight himself seemed tacitly 
to disclaim alike interest and control over the imme- 
diate favourite of his lady, young Eoland was, by 
circumstances, exempted from the strict discipline 
to which, as the retainer of a Scottish man of rank, 
he would otherwise have been subjected, according 
to all the rigour of the age. But the steward, or 
master of the household — such was the proud title 
assumed by the head domestic of each petty baron — 
deemed it not advisable to interfere with the fav- 
ourite of the Lady, and especially since she had 
brought the estate into the present family. Master 
Jasper Wingate was a man experienced, as he often 
boasted, in the ways of great families, and knew 
how to keep the steerage even, when wind and tide 
chanced to be in contradiction. 

This prudent personage winked at much, and 
avoided giving opportunity for further offence, by 
requesting little of Eoland Graeme beyond the de- 
gree of attention which he was himself disposed to 
pay ; rightly conjecturing, that however lowly the 
place which the youth might hold in the favour of 
the Knight of Avenel, still to make an evil report 
of him would make an enemy of the Lady, without 
securing the favour of her husband. With these 
prudential considerations, and doubtless not without 
an eye to his own ease and convenience, he taught 
the boy as much, and only as much, as he chose to 
learn, readily admitting whatever apology it pleased 
his pupil to allege in excuse for idleness or negli- 
gence. As the other persons in the castle, to whom 
such tasks were delegated, readily imitated the pru- 


THE ABBOT. 


43 


dential conduct of the major-domo, there was little - 
control used towards Eoland Graeme, who, of course, 
learned no more than what a very active mind, and 
a total impatience of absolute idleness, led him to 
acquire upon his own account, and by dint of his 
own exertions. The latter were especially earnest, 
when the Lady herself condescended to be his 
tutoress, or to examine his progress. 

It followed also from his quality as my Lady’s 
favourite, that Eoland was viewed with no peculiar 
good-will by the followers of the Knight, many of 
whom, of the same age, and apparently similar ori- 
gin, with the fortunate page, were subjected to se- 
vere observance of the ancient and rigorous dis- 
cipline of a feudal retainer. To these, Eoland Graeme 
was of course an object of envy, and, in consequence, 
of dislike and detraction ; but the youth possessed 
qualities which it was impossible to depreciate. 
Pride, and a sense of early ambition, did for him 
what severity and constant instruction did for 
others. In truth, the youthful Eoland displayed 
that early flexibility both of body and mind, which 
renders exercise, either mental or bodily, rather 
matter of sport than of study ; and it seemed as if 
he acquired accidentally, and by starts, those ac- 
complishments, which earnest and constant instruc- 
tion enforced by frequent reproof and occasional 
chastisement, had taught to others. Such military 
exercises, such lessons of the period, as he found it 
agreeable or convenient to apply to, he learned so 
perfectly, as to confound those who were ignorant 
how often the want of constant application is com- 
pensated by vivacity of talent and ardent en- 
thusiasm. The lads, therefore, who were more 
regularly trained to arms, to horsemanship, and to 


44 


THE ABBOT. 


other necessary exercises of the period, while they 
envied Koland Graeme the indulgence or negligence 
with which he seemed to be treated, had little rea- 
son to boast of their own superior acquirements ; a 
few hours, with the powerful exertion of a most 
energetic will, seemed to do for him more than the 
regular instruction of weeks could accomplish for 
others. 

Under these advantages, if, indeed, they were to 
he termed such, the character of young Eoland be- 
gan to develope itself. It was bold, peremptory, 
decisive, and overbearing ; generous, if neither with- 
stood nor contradicted ; vehement and passionate, if 
censured or opposed. He seemed to consider him- 
self as attached to no one, and responsible to no one, 
except his mistress ; and even over her mind he had 
gradually acquired that species of ascendency which 
indulgence is so apt to occasion. And although 
the immediate followers and dependents of Sir 
Halbert Glendinning saw his ascendency with jeal- 
ousy, and often took occasion to mortify his vanity, 
there wanted not those who were willing to acquire 
the favour of the Lady of Avenel by humouring 
and taking part with the youth whom she pro- 
tected; for although a favourite, as the poet as- 
sures us, has no friend, he seldom fails to have 
both followers and flatterers. 

The partisans of Eoland Graeme were chiefly to 
be found amongst the inhabitants of the little ham- 
let on the shore of the lake. These villagers, who 
were sometimes tempted to compare their own 
situation with that of the immediate and constant 
followers of the Knight, who attended him on his 
frequent journeys to Edinburgh and elsewhere, de- 
lighted in considering and representing themselves 


THE ABBOT. 


45 


as more properly the subjects of the Lady of Avenel 
than of her husband. It is true, her wisdom and 
affection on all occasions discountenanced the dis- 
tinction which was here implied ; but the villagers 
persisted in thinking it must be agreeable to her to 
enjoy their peculiar and undivided homage, or at 
least in acting as if they thought so ; and one chief 
mode by which they evinced their sentiments, was 
by the respect they paid to young Koland Graeme, 
the favourite attendant of the descendant of their 
ancient lords. This was a mode of flattery too 
pleasing to encounter rebuke or censure ; and the 
opportunity which it afforded the youth to form, as 
it were, a party of his own within the limits of the 
ancient barony of Avenel, added not a little to the 
audacity and decisive tone of a character, which was 
by nature bold, impetuous, and incontrollable. 

Of the two members of the household who had 
manifested an early jealousy of Eoland Graeme, the 
prejudices- of Wolf were easily overcome ; and in 
process of time the noble dog slept with Bran, 
Luath, and the celebrated hounds of ancient days. 
But Mr. Warden, the chaplain, lived, and retained 
his dislike to the youth. That good man, single- 
minded and benevolent as he really was, entertained 
rather more than a reasonable idea of the respect 
due to him as a minister, and exacted from the 
inhabitants of the castle more deference than the 
haughty young page, proud of his mistress’s favour, 
and petulant from youth and situation, was at all 
times willing to pay. His bold and free demeanour, 
his attachment to rich dress and decoration, his in- 
aptitude to receive instruction, and his hardening 
himself against rebuke, were circumstances which 
induced the good old man, with more haste than 


46 


THE ABBOT. 


charity, to set the forward page down as a vessel 
of wrath, and to presage that the youth nursed that 
pride and haughtiness of spirit which goes before 
ruin and destruction. On the other hand Eoland 
evinced at times a marked dislike, and even some- 
thing like contempt, of the chaplain. Most of the 
attendants and followers of Sir Halbert Glendinning 
entertained the same charitable thoughts as the rev- 
erend Mr. Warden ; but while Eoland was favoured 
by their lady, and endured by their lord, they saw 
no policy in making their opinions public. 

Eoland Graeme was sufficiently sensible of the 
unpleasant situation in which he stood ; but in the 
haughtiness of his heart he retorted upon the other 
domestics the distant, cold, and sarcastic manner in 
which they treated him, assumed an air of supe- 
riority which compelled the most obstinate to obedi- 
ence, and had the satisfaction at least to be dreaded, 
if he was heartily hated. 

The chaplain’s marked dislike had the effect of 
recommending him to the attention of Sir Halbert’s 
brother, Edward, who now, under the conventual 
appellation of Father Ambrose, continued to be one 
of the few monks who, with the Abbot Eustatius, 
had, notwithstanding the nearly total downfall of 
their faith under the regency of Murray, been still 
permitted to linger in the cloisters at Kennaquhair. 
Eespect to Sir Halbert had prevented their being 
altogether driven out of the Abbey, though their 
order was now in a great measure suppressed, and 
they were interdicted the public exercise of their 
ritual, and only allowed for their support a small pen- 
sion out of their once splendid revenues. Father 
Ambrose, thus situated, was an occasional, though 
veiy rare visitant, at the Castle of Avenel, and was 


THE ABBOT. 


47 


at such times observed to pay particular attention 
to Eoland Graeme, who seemed to return it with 
more depth of feeling than consisted with his usual 
habits. 

Thus situated, years glided on, during which the 
Knight of Avenel continued, to act a frequent and 
important part in the convulsions of his distracted 
country ; while young Graeme anticipated, both in 
wishes and personal accomplishments, the age which 
should enable him to emerge from the obscurity of 
his present situation. 


CHAPTER ir. 


Amid their cups that freely flow*A 
Their revelry and mirth, 

A youthful lord tax’d Valentine 
With base and doubtful birth. 

Valentine and Orson. 


When Roland Grseme was a youth about seventeen 
years of ^ge, he chanced one summer morning to 
descend to the mew in which Sir Halbert Glendin- 
ning kept his hawks, in order to superintend the 
training of an eyas, or young hawk, which he him- 
self, at the imminent risk of neck and limbs, had 
taken from a celebrated eyry in the neighbourhood, 
called Gledscraig. As he was by no means satisfied 
with the attention which had been bestowed on his 
favourite bird, he was not slack in testifying his dis- 
pleasure to the falconer’s lad, whose duty it was to 
have attended upon it. 

“ What, ho ! sir knave,” exclaimed Roland, “ is it 
thus you feed the eyas with unwashed meat, as if 
you were gorging the foul brancher of a worthless 
hoodie-crow ? — by the mass, and thou hast neg- 
lected its castings also for these two days ! Think’st 
thou I ventured my neck to bring the bird down 
from the crag that thou shouldst spoil her by thy 
neglect?” And to add force to his remonstrances, 
he conferred a cuff or two on the negligent attendant 
of the hawks, who, shouting rather louder than was 


THE ABBOT. 


49 


necessary under all the circumstances, brought the 
master falconer to his assistance. 

Adam Woodcock, the falconer of Avenel, was an 
Englishman by birth, but so long in the service of 
Glendinning, that he had lost much of his national 
attachment in that which he had formed to his mas- 
ter. He was a favourite in his department, jealous 
and conceited of his skill, as masters of the game 
usually are ; for the rest of his character, he was 
a jester and a parcel poet, (qualities which by no 
means abated his natural conceit,) a jolly fellow, 
who, though a sound Protestant, loved a flagon of 
ale better than a long sermon, a stout man of his 
hands when need required, true to his master, and 
a little presuming on his interest with him. 

Adam Woodcock, such as we have described him, 
by no means relished the freedom used by young 
Graeme, in chastising his assistant. “ Hey, hey, my 
Lady’s page,” said he, stepping between his own 
boy and Koland, “fair and softly, an it like your 
gilt jacket — hands off is fair play — if my boy has 
done amiss, I can beat him’ myself, and then you 
may keep your hands soft.” 

“ I will beat him and thee too,” answered Eoland, 
without hesitation, “ an ye look not better after your 
business. See how the bird is cast away between 
you. I found the careless lurdane feeding her with 
unwashed flesh, and she an eyas.” ^ 

" Go to, ” said the falconer, " thou art hut an 
eyas thyself, child Eoland. — What knowest thou 
of feeding ? I say that the eyas should have her 
meat unwashed, until she becomes a hrancher — 

1 There is a difference amongst authorities how long the nest- 
ling hawk should he fed with flesh which has previously been 
washed. 

VOL. I. —4 


50 


THE ABBOT. 


’twere the ready way to give her the frounce, to 
wash her meat sooner, and so knows every one who 
knows a gled from a falcon. ” 

" It is thine own laziness, thou false English 
blood, that dost nothing but drink and sleep, ” re- 
torted the page, “ and leaves that lither lad to do 
the work, which he minds as little as thou. ” 

“ And am I so idle then, ” said the falconer, 
“ that have three cast of hawks to look after, at 
perch and mew, and to fly them in the field to 
boot? — and is my Lady’s page so busy a man 
that he must take me up short ? — and am I of 
false English blood ? — I marvel what blood thou 
art — neither Englander nor Scot — fish nor flesh 
— a bastard from the Debateable Land, without 
either kith, kin, or ally ! — Marry, out upon thee, 
foul kite, that would fain be a tercel gentle ! ” 

The reply to this sarcasm was a box on the ear, 
so well applied, that it overthrew the falconer into 
the cistern in which water was kept for the benefit 
of the hawks. Up started Adam Woodcock, his 
wrath nowise appeased by the cold immersion, 
and seizing on a truncheon which stood by, would 
have soon requited the injury he had received, had 
not Koland laid his hand on his poniard, and 
sworn by all that was sacred, that if he offered a 
stroke towards him, he would sheath the blade in 
his bowels. The noise was now so great, that 
more than one of the household came in, and 
amongst others the major-domo, a grave personage, 
already mentioned, whose gold chain and white 
wand intimated his authority. At the appearance 
of this dignitary, the strife was for the present 
appeased. He embraced, however, so favourable 
an opportunity, to read Eoland Graeme a shrewd 


THE ABBOT. 


51 


lecture on the impropriety of his deportment to 
his fellow-menials, and to assure him, that, should 
he communicate this fray to his master, (who, 
though now on one of his frequent expeditions, 
was speedily expected to return,) which but for 
respect to his Lady he would most certainly do, 
the residence of the culprit in the Castle of Avenel 
would be but of brief duration. “ But, however, ” 
added the prurient master of the household, " I will 
report the matter first to my Lady. ” , 

“ Very just, very right. Master Wingate, ” ex- 
claimed several voices together ; “ my Lady will 
consider if daggers are to be drawn on us for every 
idle word, and whether we are to live iii a well- 
ordered household, where there is the fear of God, 
or amongst drawn dirks and sharp knives. ” 

The object of this general resentment darted an 
angry glance around him, and suppressing with 
difficulty the desire which urged him to reply in 
furious or in contemptuous language, returned his 
dagger into the scabbard, looked disdainfully 
around upon the assembled menials, turned short 
upon his heel, and pushing aside those who stood 
betwixt him and the door, left the apartment. 

" This will be no tree for my nest, ” said the fal- 
coner, “ if this cock-sparrow is to crow over us as 
he seems to do. ” 

“ He struck me with his switch yesterday, ” said 
one of the grooms, “ because the tail of his wor- 
ship’s gelding was not trimmed altogether so as 
suited his humour. ” 

" And I promise you, ” said the laundress, “ my 
young master will stick nothing to call an honest 
woman slut and quean, if there be but a speck of 
soot upon his band-collar. ” 


52 


THE ABBOT. 


" If Master Wingate do not his errand to my 
Lady, ” was the general result, “ there will be no 
tarrying in the same house with Eoland Graeme. ” 
The master of the household heard them all for 
some time, and then, motioning for universal si- 
lence, he addressed them with all the dignity of 
Malvolio himself. — " My masters, — not forgetting 
you, my mistresses, — do not think the worse of 
me that I proceed with as much caj:e as haste in 
this matter. Our master is a gallant knight, and 
will have his sway at home and abroad, in wood 
and field, in hall and bower, as the saying is. 
Our Lady, my benison upon her, is also a noble 
person of long descent, and rightful heir of this 
place and barony, and she also loves her will ; as 
for that matter, show me the woman who doth 
not. Now, she hath favoured, doth favour, and 
will favour, this jackanapes, — for what good part 
about him I know not, save that as one noble lady 
will love a messan dog, and another a screaming 
popinjay, and a third a Barbary ape, so doth it 
please our noble dame to set her affections upon 
this stray elf of a page, for nought that I can think 
of, save that she was the cause of his being saved 
(the more’s the pity) from drowning. ” And here 
Master Wingate made a pause. 

“ I would have been his caution for a grey groat, 
against saltwater or fresh,” said Boland’s adver- 
sary, the falconer ; “ marry, if he crack not a rope 
for stabbing or for snatching, I will be content 
never to hood hawk again. ” 

" Peace, Adam Woodcock, ” said Wingate, wav- 
ing his hand ; “ I prithee, peace, man — Now, my 
Lady, liking this springald, as aforesaid, differs 
therein from my Lord, who loves never a bone in 


THE ABBOT. 


53 


his skin. Now, is it for me to stir up strife be- 
twixt them, and put as 'twere my finger betwixt 
the bark and the tree, on account of a pragmatical 
youngster, whom, nevertheless, I would willingly 
see whipped forth of the barony ? Have patience, 
and this boil will break without our meddling. 
I have been in service since I wore a beard on my 
chin, till now that that beard is turned grey, and 
I have seldom known any one better themselves, 
even by taking the lady’s part against the lord’s; 
but never one who did not dirk himself, if he took 
the lord’s against the lady’s.” 

“ And so, ” said Lilias, “ we are to be crowed 
over, every one of us, men and women, cock and 
hen, by this little upstart ? — I will try titles with 
him first, I promise you. — I fancy. Master Win- 
gate, for as wise as you look, you will be pleased 
to tell what you have seen to-day, if my Lady 
commands you ? ” 

" To speak the truth when my Lady commands 
me, ” answered the prudential major-domo, “ is in 
some measure my duty. Mistress Lilias; always 
providing for and excepting those cases in which 
it cannot be spoken without breeding mischief and 
inconvenience to myself or my fellow-servants ; for 
the tongue of a tale-bearer breaketh bones as well 
as a Jeddart staff. ” ^ 

“ But this imp of Satan is none of your friends or 
fellow-servants, ” said Lilias ; " and I trust you mean 
not to stand up for him against the whole family 
besides ? ” 

" Credit me, Mrs. Lilias, ” replied the senior, 

1 A species of battle-axe, so called as being in especial use in that 
ancient burgh, whose armorial bearings still represent an armed 
horseman brandishing such a weapon. 


54 


THE ABBOT. 


" should I see the time fitting, I would with right 
good-will give him a lick with the rough side of 
my tongue. ” 

" Enough said, Master Wingate, ” answered 
Lilias ; “ then trust me, his song shall soon be laid. 
If my mistress does not ask me what is the matter 
below stairs before she be ten minutes of time older, 
she is no born woman, and my name is not Lilias 
Bradbourne. ” 

In pursuance of her plan, Mistress Lilias failed 
not to present herself before her mistress with all 
the exterior of one who is possessed of an impor- 
tant secret, — that is, she had the corners of her 
mouth turned down, her eyes taised up, her lips 
pressed as fast together as if they had been sewed up, 
to prevent her blabbing, and an air of prim mysti- 
cal importance diffused over her whole person and 
demeanour, which seemed to intimate, “ I know 
something which I am resolved not to tell you ! ” 

Lilias had rightly read her mistress’s temper, 
who, wise and good as she was, was yet a daughter 
of grandam Eve, and could not witness this mys- 
terious bearing on the part of her waiting-woman 
without longing to ascertain the secret cause. For 
a space, Mrs. Lilias was obdurate to all enquiries, 
sighed, turned her eyes up higher yet to heaven, 
hoped for the best, but had nothing particular 
to communicate. All this, as was most natural 
and proper, only stimulated the Lady’s curiosity; 
neither was her importunity to be parried with, — 
" Thank God, I am no makebate — no tale-bearer, 
— thank God, I never envied any one’s favour, or 
was anxious to propale their misdemeanour — only, 
thank God, there has been no bloodshed and mur- 
der in the house — that is alL ” 


THE ABBOT. 


55 


“ Bloodshed and murder ! ” exclaimed the Lady, 
“ what does the quean mean ? — if you speak not 
plain out, you shall have something you will 
scarce be thankful for. ” 

“ Nay, my Lady, ” answered Lilias, eager to dis- 
burden her mind, or, in Chaucer’s phrase, to “ un- 
buckle her mail, ” “ if you bid me speak out the 
truth, you must not be moved with what might 
displease you — Eoland Graeme has dirked Adam 
Woodcock — that is all. ” 

“ Good Heaven ! ” said the Lady, turning pale 
as ashes, “ is the man slain ? ” 

“ No, madam, ” replied Lilias, " but slain he 
would have been, if there had not been ready help ; 
but maybe, it is your Ladyship’s pleasure that this 
young esquire shall poniard the servants, as well 
as switch and baton them. ” 

“ Go to, minion, ” said the lady, " you are saucy 
— tell the master of the household to attend me 
instantly. ” 

Lilias hastened to seek out Mr. Wingate, and 
hurry him to his lady’s presence, speaking as a 
word in season to him on the way, “ I have set the 
stone a-trowling, look that you do not let it stand 
still. ” 

The steward, too prudential a person to commit 
himself otherwise, answered by a sly look and a 
nod of intelligence, and presently after stood in 
the ^presence of the Lady of Avenel, with a look of 
great respect for his lady, partly real, partly affected, 
and an air of great sagacity, which inferred no or- 
dinary conceit of himself. 

“ How is this, Wingate, ” said the Lady, “ and 
what rule do you keep in the castle, that the 
domestics of Sir Halbert Glendinning draw the 


56 


THE ABBOT. 


dagger on each other as in a cavern of thieves and 
murderers ? — is the wounded man much hurt ? and 
what — what hath become of the unhappy boy ? ” 

“ There is no one wounded as yet, madam, ” re- 
plied he of the golden chain ; " it passes my poor 
skill to say how many may be wounded before 
Pasche,^ if some rule be not taken with this youth 
— not but the youth is a fair youth, ” he added, 
correcting himself, " and able at his exercise ; but 
somewhat too ready with the ends of his fingers, 
the but of his riding-switch, and the point of his 
dagger. ” 

“ And whose fault is that, ” said the Lady, “ but 
yours, who should have taught him better disci- 
pline, than to brawl or to draw his dagger ? ” 

“ If it please your Ladyship so to impose the 
blame on me, ” answered the steward, “ it is my 
part, doubtless, to bear it — only I submit to your 
consideration, that unless I nailed his weapon to 
the scabbard, I could no more keep it still than I 
could fix quicksilver, which defied even the skill 
of Eaymond Lullius. ” 

“ Tell me not of Eaymond Lullius, ” said the 
Lady, losing patience, “ but send me the chaplain 
hither. You grow all of you too wise for me dur- 
ing your lord’s long and repeated absences. I 
would to Go(J his affairs would permit hinuto re- 
main at home and rule his own household, for it 
passes my wit and skill ! ” 

" God forbid, my Lady ! ” said the old domestic, 
“ that you should sincerely think what you are now 
pleased to say : your old servants might well hope, 
that after so many years’ duty, you would do their 
service more justice than to distrust their grey hairs, 

1 Easter. 


THE ABBOT. 


5) 


because they cannot rule the peevish humour of a 
green head, which the owner carries, it may he, a 
brace of inches higher than becomes him. ” 

“ Leave me,” said the Lady; “ Sir Halbert’s re- 
turn must now be expected daily, and he will look 
into these matters himself — leave me, I say, Win- 
gate, without saying more of it. I know you are 
honest, and I believe the boy is petulant ; and yet 
I think it is my favour which hath set all of you 
against him. ” 

The steward bowed and retired, after having 
been silenced in a second attempt to explain the 
motives on which he acted. 

The chaplain arrived ; hut neither from him did 
the Lady receive much comfort. On the contrary, 
she found him disposed, in plain terms, to lay to the 
door of her indulgence all the disturbances which 
the fiery temper of Koland Graeme had already 
occasioned, or might hereafter occasion, in the 
family. " I would, ” he said, “ honoured Lady, 
that you had deigned to he ruled by me in the out- 
set of this matter, sith it is easy to stem evil in 
the fountain, but hard to struggle against it in the 
stream. You, honoured madam, (a word which I 
do not use according to the vain forms of this 
world, but because I have ever loved and honoured 
you as an honourable and an elect lady,) — you, I 
say, madam, have been pleased, contrary to my 
poor but earnest counsel, to raise this boy from his 
station into one approaching to your own.” 

" What mean you, reverend sir ? ” said the 
Lady ; " I have made this youth a page — is there 
aught in my doing so that does not become my 
character and quality ? ” 

“ I dispute not, madam, ” said the pertinacious 


58 


THE ABBOT. 


preacher, " your benevolent purpose in taking 
charge of this youth, or your title to give him this 
idle character of page, if such was your pleasure ; 
though what the education of a boy in the train of 
a female can tend to, save to ingraft foppery and 
effeminacy on conceit and arrogance, it passes my 
knowledge to discover. But I blame you more 
directly for having taken little care to guard him 
against the perils of his condition, or to tame and 
humble a spirit naturally haughty, overbearing, 
and impatient. You have brought into your bower 
a lion’s cub; delighted with the beauty of his fur, 
and the grace of his gambols, you have bound him 
with no fetters befitting the fierceness of his dis- 
position. You have let him grow up as unawed as 
if he had been still a tenant of the forest, and now 
you are surprised, and call out for assistance, when 
he begins to ramp, rend, and tear, according to 
his proper nature. ” 

“Mr. Warden,” said the Lady, considerably 
offended, “ you are my husband’s ancient friend, 
and I believe your love sincere to him and to his 
household. Yet let me say, that when I asked 
you for counsel, I expected not this asperity of 
rebuke. If I have done wrong in loving this poor 
orphan lad more than others of his class, I scarce 
think the error merited such severe censure ; and 
if stricter discipline were required to keep his fiery 
temper in order, it ought, I think, to be consid- 
ered, that I am a woman, and that if I have erred 
in this matter, it becomes a friend’s part rather to 
aid than to rebuke me. I would these evils were 
taken order with before my lord’s return. He 
loves not domestic discord or domestic brawls ; and 
I would not willingly that he thought such could 


THE ABBOT. 


59 

arise from one whom I have favoured — What do 
you counsel me to do ? ” 

“ Dismiss this youth from your service, madam, ” 
replied the preacher. 

" You cannot bid me do so, ” said the Lady ; 
" you cannot, as a Christian and a man of human- 
ity, bid me turn away an unprotected creature, 
against whom my favour, my injudicious favour if 
you will, has reared up so many enemies. ” 

“ It is not necessary you should altogether aban- 
don him, though you dismiss him to another ser- 
vice, or to a calling better suiting his station and 
character, ” said the preacher ; " elsewhere he may 
be ^ useful and profitable member of the common- 
weal — here he is but a makebate, and a stumbling- 
block of offence. The youth has snatches of sense 
and of intelligence, though he lacks industry. I 
will myself give him letters commendatory to 
Olearius Schinderhausen, a learned professor at 
the famous university of Leyden, where they lack 
an under- janitor — where, besides gratis instruction, 
if God give him the grace to seek it, he will enjoy 
five marks by the year, and the professor’s cast-off 
suit, which he disparts with biennially. ” 

“This will never do, good Mr. Warden,” said 
the Lady, scarce able to suppress a smile ; “ we 
will think more at large upon this matter. In the 
meanwhile, I trust to your remonstrances with this 
wild boy and with the family, for restraining these 
violent and unseemly jealousies and bursts of pas- 
sion ; and I entreat you to press on him and them 
their duty in this respect towards God, and towards 
their master. ” 

“You shall be obeyed, madam,” said Warden. 
“ On the next Thursday I exhort the family, and 


6o 


THE ABBOT. 


will, with God^s blessing, so wrestle with the 
demon of wrath and violence, which hath entered 
into my little flock, that I trust to hound the wolf 
out of the fold, as if he were chased away with 
bandogs. ” 

This was the part of the conference from which 
Mr. Warden derived the greatest pleasure. The 
pulpit was at that time the same powerful engine 
for affecting popular feeling which the press has 
since become, and he had been no unsuccessful 
preacher, as we have already seen. It followed as 
a natural consequence, that he rather over-esti- 
mated the powers of his own oratory, and, like 
some of his brethren about the period, was gla^ of 
an opportunity to handle any matters of import- 
ance, whether public or private, the discussion of 
which could be dragged into his discourse. In 
that rude age the delicacy was unknown which 
prescribed time and place to personal exhortations ; 
and as the court-preacher often addressed the King 
individually, and dictated to him the conduct he 
ought to observe in matters of state, so the noble- 
man himself, or any of his retainers, were, in the 
chapel of the feudal castle, often incensed or ap- 
palled, as the case might be, by the discussion of 
their private faults in the evening exercise, and by 
spiritual censures directed against them, specifi- 
cally, personally, and by name. 

The sermon, by means of which Henry Warden 
proposed to restore concord and good order to the 
Castle of Avenel, bore for text the well-known 
words, “ He who striketh with the sword shall 
perish by the sword, ” and was a singular mixture 
of good sense and powerful oratory with pedantry 
and bad taste. He enlarged a good deal on the 


THE ABBOT. 


6i 


word striketh, which he assured his hearers com- 
prehended blows given with the point as well as 
with the edge, and more generally, shooting with 
hand-gun, crossbow, or long-bow, thrusting with 
a lance, or doing any thing whatever by which 
death might be occasioned to the adversary. In 
the same manner, he proved satisfactorily, that 
the word sword, comprehended all descriptions, 
whether back-sword or basket-hilt, cut-and-thrust 
or rapier, falchion or scimitar. “ But if, ” he con- 
tinued with still greater animation, “ the text in- 
cludeth in its anathema those who strike with any 
of those weapons which man hath devised for the 
exercise of his open hostility, still more doth it 
comprehend such as from their form and size are 
devised rather for the gratification of privy malice 
by treachery, than for the destruction of an enemy 
prepared and standing upon his defence. Such, ” 
he proceeded, looking sternly at the place where 
the page was seated on a cushion at the feet of his 
mistress, and wearing in his crimson belt a gay 
dagger with a gilded hilt, — “ such, more espe- 
cially, I hold to be those implements of death, 
which, in our modern and fantastic times, are 
worn not only by thieves and cut-throats, to whom 
they most properly belong, but even by those who 
attend upon women, and wait in the chambers of 
honourable ladies. Yes, my friends, — every spe- 
cies of this unhappy weapon, framed for all evil 
and for no good, is comprehended under this deadly 
denunciation, whether it be a stilet, which we 
have borrowed from the treacherous Italian, or a 
dirk, which is borne by the savage Highlandmen, 
or a whinger, which is carried by our own Border- 
thieves and cut-throats, or a dudgeon-dagger, all 


62 


THE ABBOT. 


are alike engines invented by the devil himself, 
for ready implements of deadly wrath, sudden to 
execute, and difficult to be parried. Even the 
common sword-and-buckler brawler despises the 
use of such a treacherous and malignant instru- 
ment, which is therefore fit to be used, not by men 
or soldiers, but by those who, trained under female 
discipline, become themselves effeminate herma- 
phrodites, having female spite and female coward- 
ice added to the infirmities and evil passions of 
their masculine nature. ” 

The effect which this oration produced upon the 
assembled congregation of Avenel cannot very 
easily be described. The Lady seemed at once 
embarrassed and offended ; the menials could 
hardly contain, under an affectation of deep at- 
tention, the joy with which they heard the chaplain 
launch his thunders at the head of the unpopular 
favourite, and the weapon which they considered 
as a badge of affectation and finery. Mrs. Lilias 
crested and drew up her head with all the deep- 
felt pride of gratified resentment ; while the stew- 
ard, observing a strict neutrality of aspect, fixed 
his eyes upon an old scutcheon on the opposite side 
of the wall, which he seemed to examine with the 
utmost accuracy, more willing, perhaps, to incur 
the censure of being inattentive to the sermon, 
than that of seeming to listen with marked appro- 
bation to what appeared so distasteful to his 
mistress. 

The unfortunate subject of the harangue, whom 
nature had endowed with passions which had hith- 
erto found no effectual restraint, could not disguise 
the resentment which he felt at being thus directly 
held up to the scorn, as well as the censure, of the 


THE ABBOT. 


63 


assembled inhabitants of the little world in which 
he lived. His brow grew red, his lip grew pale, 
he set his teeth^,! he clenched his hand, and then 
with mechanical readiness grasped the weapon of 
which the clergyman had given so hideous a char- 
acter; and at length, as the preacher heightened 
the colouring of his invective, he felt his rage be- 
come so ungovernable, that, fearful of being hurried 
into some deed of desperate violence, he rose up, 
traversed the chapel with hasty steps, and left the 
congregation. 

The preacher was surprised into a sudden pause, 
while the fiery youth shot across him like a flash 
of lightning, regarding him as he passed, as if he 
had wished to dart from his eyes the same power 
of blighting and of consuming. But no sooner had 
he crossed the chapel, and shut with violence be- 
hind him the door of the vaulted entrance by which 
it communicated with the castle, than the impro- 
priety of his conduct supplied Warden with one of 
those happier subjects for eloquence, of which he 
knew how to take advantage for making a suitable 
impression on his hearers. He paused for an in- 
stant, and then pronounced, in a slow and solemn 
voice, the deep anathema : " He hath gone out 
from us because he was not of us — the sick man 
hath been offended at the wholesome bitter of the 
medicine — the wounded patient hath flinched from 
the friendly knife of the surgeon — the sheep hath 
fled from the sheepfold and delivered himself to 
the wolf, because he could not assume the quiet 
and humble conduct demanded of us by the great 
Shepherd. — Ah ! my brethren, beware of wrath — 
beware of pride — beware of the deadly and de- 
stroying sin which so often shows itself to our 


64 


THE ABBOT. 


frail eyes in the garments of light ! What is our 
earthly honour ? Pride, and pride only — What 
our earthly gifts and graces? Pride and vanity. 
— Voyagers speak of Indian men who deck them- 
selves with shells, and anoint themselves with 
pigments, and boast of their attire as we do of our 
miserable carnal advantages — Pride could draw 
down the morning-star from Heaven even to the 
verge of the pit — Pride and self-opinion kindled 
the flaming sword which waves us off from Para- 
dise — Pride made Adam mortal, and a weary 
wanderer on the face of the earth which he had 
else been at this day the immortal lord of — Pride 
brought amongst us sin, and doubles every sin it 
has brought. It is the outpost which the devil 
and the flesh most stubbornly maintain against the 
assaults of grace ; and until it be subdued, and its 
barriers levelled with the very earth, there is more 
hope of a fool than of the sinner. Kend, then, 
from your bosoms this accursed shoot of the fatal 
apple ; tear it up by the roots, though it be twisted 
with the chords of your life. Profit by the ex- 
ample of the miserable sinner that has passed from 
us, and embrace the means of grace while it is 
called to-day — ere your conscience is seared as 
with a firebrand, and your ears deafened like those 
of the adder, and your heart hardened like the 
nether mill-stone. Up, then, and be doing — ■ 
wrestle and overcome ; resist, and the enemy shall 
flee from you — Watch and pray, lest ye fall into 
temptation, and let the stumbling of others be 
your warning and your example. Above all, rely 
not on yourselves, for* such self-confidence is even 
the worst symptom of the disorder itself. The 
Pharisee perhaps deemed himself humble while he 


THE ABBOT. 


6S 

stooped in the Temple, and thanked God that he 
was not as other men, and even as the publicaa 
But while his knees touched the marble pavement, 
his head was as high as the topmost pinnacle of 
the Temple. Do not therefore deceive yourselves, 
and offer false coin, where the purest you can pre- 
sent is but as dross — think not that such will 
pass the assay of Omnipotent Wisdom. Yet shrink 
not from the task, because, as is my bounden duty, 
I do not disguise from you its difficulties. Self- 
searching can do much — Meditation can do much 
— Grace can do all. ” 

And he concluded with a touching and animat- 
ing exhortation to his hearers to seek divine grace, 
which is perfected in human weakness. 

The audience did* not listen to this address with- 
out being considerably affected; though it might 
be doubted whether the feelings of triumph, excited 
by the disgraceful retreat of the favourite page, did 
not greatly qualify in the minds of many the ex- 
hortations of the preacher to charity and to humil- 
ity. And, in fact, the expression of their counte- 
nances much resembled the satisfied, triumphant air 
of a set of children, who, having just seen a com- 
panion punished for a fault in which they had no 
share, con their task with double glee, both because 
they themselves are out of the scrape, and because 
the culprit is in it. 

With very different feelings did the Lady of 
Avenel seek her own apartment. She felt angry 
at Warden having made a domestic matter, in 
which she took a personal interest, the subject of 
such public discussion. But this she knew the 
good man claimed as a branch of his Christian 
liberty as a preacher, and also that it was vindi- 

VOL. I. — 5 


66 


THE ABBOT. 


cated by the universal custom of his brethren. 
But the self-willed conduct of her proteg^ afforded 
her yet deeper concern. That he had broken 
through, in so remarkable a degree, not only the 
respect due to her presence, but that which was 
paid to religious admonition in those days with 
such peculiar reverence, argued a spirit as untame- 
able as his enemies had represented him to possess. 
And yet, so far as he had been under her own eye, 
she had seen no more of that fiery spirit than ap- 
peared to her to become his years and his vivacity. 
This opinion might be founded in some degree on 
partiality ; in some degree, too, it might be owing 
to the kindness and indulgence which she had al- 
ways extended to him; but still she thought it 
impossible that she could be totally mistaken in 
the estimate she had formed of his character. The 
extreme of violence is scarce consistent with a 
course of continued hypocrisy, (although Lilias 
charitably hinted, that in some instances they were 
happily united,) and therefore she could not exactly 
trust the report of others against her own expe- 
rience and observation. The thoughts of this or- 
phan boy clung to her heartstrings with a fondness 
for which she herself was unable to account. He 
had seemed to have been sent to her by Heaven, to 
fill up those intervals of languor and vacuity which 
deprived her of much enjoyment. Perhaps he was 
not less dear to her, because she well saw that he 
was a favourite with no one else, and because she 
felt, that to give him up was to afford the judg- 
ment of her husband and others a triumph over her 
own; a circumstance not quite indifferent to the 
best of spouses of either sex. 

In short, the Lady of Avenel formed the inter- 


THE ABBOT. 


67 


nal resolution, that she would not desert her page 
while her page could be rationally protected ; and, 
with the view of ascertaining how far this might 
be done, she caused him to be summoned to her 
presence. 


CHAPTEE V. 


■ In the wild storm, 

The seaman hews his mast down, and the merchant 
Heaves to the billows wares he once deem’d precious ; 

So prince and peer, ’mid popular contentions, 

Cast off their favourites. 

Old Play» 

It was some time ere Poland Graeme appeared. 
The messenger (his old friend Lilias) had at first 
attempted to open the door of his little apartment 
with the charitable purpose, doubtless, of enjoying 
the confusion, and marking the demeanour, of the 
culprit. But an oblong bit of iron, yclept a bolt, 
was passed across the door on the inside, and pre- 
vented her benign intentions. Lilias knocked, 
and called at intervals, “ Poland — Eoland Graeme 
— Master Eoland Graeme, ” (an emphasis on the 
word Master,) " will you be pleased to undo the 
door ? — What ails you ? — are you at your prayers 
in private, to complete the devotion which you left 
unfinished in public ? — Surely we must have a 
screened seat for you in the chapel, that your gen- 
tility may be free from the eyes of common folks ! ” 
Still no whisper was heard in reply. “ Well, Mas- 
ter Eoland, ” said the waiting-maid, “ I must tell 
my mistress, that if ,she would have an answer, 
she must either come herself, or send those on 
errand to you who can beat the door down. ” 

“ What says your Lady ? ” enquired the page 
from within. 


THE ABBOT. 


69 

“ Marry, open the door, and you shall hear, ” 
answered the waiting-maid. “ I trow it becomes 
my Lady’s message to be listened to face to face; 
and I will not, for your idle pleasure, whistle it 
through a key-hole. ” 

“ Your mistress’s name,” said the page, opening 
the door, “ is too fair a cover for your impertinence 
— What says my Lady ? ” 

. “ That you will he pleased to come to her directly, 
• in the withdrawing-room,” answered Lilias. “ I pre- 
sume she has some directions for you concerning the 
forms to he observed in leaving chapel in future. ” 

“ Say to my Lady, that I will directly wait on 
her, ” said the page ; and, returning into his own 
apartment, he once more locked the door in the face 
of the waiting-maid. 

“ Bare courtesy ! ” muttered Lilias ; and, return- 
ing to her mistress, acquainted her that Eoland 
Graeme would wait on her when it suited his 
convenience. 

" What ! is that his phrase, or your own addi- 
tion, Lilias ? ” said the Lady, coolly. 

" Nay, madam, ” replied the attendant, not di- 
rectly answering the question, “ he looked as if he 
could have said much more impertinent things 
than that, if I had been willing to hear them. — 
But here he comes to answer for himself. ” 

Eoland Graeme entered the apartment with a 
loftier mien, and somewhat a higher colour, than 
his wont ; there was embarrassment in his manner, 
but it was neither that of fear nor of penitence. 

" Young man, ” said the Lady, “ what trow you 
am I to think of your conduct this day ? ” 

“ If it has offended you, madam, I am deeply 
grieved,” said the youth. 


70 


THE ABBOT. 


“ To have offended me alone, ” said the Lady, 

" were but little — You have been guilty of conduct 
which will highly offend your master — of violence 
to your fellow-servants, and of disrespect to God 
himself, in the person of his ambassador. ” 

" Permit me again to reply, ” said the page, 

“ that if I have offended my only mistress, friend, 
and benefactress, it includes the sum of my guilt, 
and deserves the sum of my penitence — Sir Halbert 
Glendinning calls me not servant, nor do I call * 
him master — he is not entitled to blame me for 
chastising an insolent groom — nor do I fear the 
wrath of Heaven for treating with scorn the un- 
authorized interference of a meddling preacher. ” 

The Lady of Avenel had before this seen symp- 
toms in her favourite of boyish petulance, and of 
impatience of Censure or reproof. But his pres- 
ent demeanour was of a graver and more deter- 
mined character, and she was for a moment at a 
loss how she should treat the youth, who seemed 
to have at once assumed the character not only of 
a man, but of a bold and determined one. She 
paused an instant, and then assuming the dignity 
which was natural to her, she said, “ Is it to me, 
Poland, that you hold this language ? Is it for 
the purpose of making me repent the favour I have 
shown you, that you declare yourself indepen- 
dent, both of an earthly and a Heavenly master ? 
Have you forgotten what you were, and to what 
the loss of my protection would speedily again re- 
duce you ? ” 

" Lady, ” said the page, " I have forgot nothing ; 

I remember but too much. I know, that but for 
you, I should have perished in yon blue waves,” 
pointing, as he spoke, to the lake, which was seen 


THE ABBOT. 


71 


through the window, agitated by the western wind. 

" Your goodness has gone farther, madam — you’ 
have protected me against the malice of others, 
and against my own folly. You are free, if you are 
willing, to abandon the orphan you have reared. 
You have left nothing undone by him, and he 
complains of nothing. And yet. Lady, do not 
think I have been ungrateful — I have endured 
something on my part, which I would have borne 
for the sake of no one but my benefactress. ” 

“ For my sake ! ” said the Lady ; “ and what is 
it that I can have subjected you to endure, which 
can be remembered with other feelings than those 
of thanks and gratitude ? ” 

“ You are too just, madam, to require me to be 
thankful for the cold neglect with which your 
husband has uniformly treated me — neglect not 
unmingled with fixed aversion. You are too just, 
madam, to require me to be grateful for the con- 
stant and unceasing marks of scorn and malevo- 
lence with which I have been treated by others, or 
for such a homily as that with which your reve- 
rend chaplain has, at my expense, this very day 
regaled the assembled household. ” 

“ Heard mortal ears the like of this ! ” said the 
waiting-maid, with her hands expanded, and her 
eyes turned up to heaven ; " he speaks as if he were 
son of an earl, or of a belted knight the least penny !” 

The page glanced on her a look of supreme con- 
tempt, but vouchsafed no other answer. His mis- 
tress, who began to feel herself seriously offended, 
and yet sorry for the youth’s folly, took up the 
same tone. 

“ Indeed, Eoland, you forget yourself so 
strangely, ” said she, “ that you will tempt me to 


72 


THE ABBOT. 


take serious measures to lower you in your own 
opinion, by reducing you to your proper station in 
society. ” 

“ And that, ” added Lilias, " would be best done 
by turning him out the same beggar’s brat that 
your ladyship took him in. ” 

" Lilias speaks too rudely, ” continued the Lady, 
" but she has spoken the truth, young man ; nor do 
I think I ought to spare that pride which hath so 
completely turned your head. You have been 
tricked up with fine garments, and treated like the 
son of a gentleman, until you have forgot the foun- 
tain of your churlish blood. ” 

“ Craving your pardon, most honourable madam, 
Lilias hath not spoken truth, nor does your lady- 
ship know aught of my descent, which should en- 
title you to treat it with such decided scorn. I 
am no beggar’s brat — my grandmother begged 
from no one, here nor elsewhere — she would have 
perished sooner on the bare moor. We were har- 
ried out and driven from our home — a chance 
which has happed elsewhere, and to others. 
Avenel Castle, with its lake and its towers, was 
not at all times able to protect its inhabitants 
from want and desolation. ” 

" Hear but his assurance ! ” said Lilias, “ he up- 
braids my Lady with the distresses of her family ! ” 
“ It had indeed been a theme more gratefully 
spared, ” said the Lady, affected nevertheless with 
the allusion. 

“ It was necessary, madam, for my vindication, ” 
said the page, " or I had not even hinted at a word 
that might give you pain. But believe, honoured 
Lady, I am of no churl’s blood. My proper de- 
scent I know not ; but my only relation has said, 


THE ABBOT. 


73 


and my heart has echoed it hack and attested the 
truth, that I am sprung of gentle blood, and de- 
serve gentle usage. ” 

“ And upon an assurance so vague as this, ” said 
the Lady, “ do you propose to expect all the regard, 
all the privileges, befitting high rank and distin- 
guished birth, and become a contender for conces- 
sions which are only due to the noble ? Go to, sir, 
know yourself, or the master of the household 
shall make you know you are liable to the scourge 
as a malapert boy. You have tasted too little the 
discipline fit for your age and station. ” 

" The master of the household shall taste of my 
dagger, ere I taste of his discipline, ” said the page, 
giving way to his restrained passion. “ Lady, I 
have been too long the vassal of a pantoufle, and 
the slave of a silver whistle. You must hence- 
forth find some other to answer your call ; and let 
him be of birth and spirit mean enough to brook 
the scorn of your menials, and to call a church 
vassal his master. ” 

" I have deserved this insult, ” said the Lady, 
colouring deeply, “ for so long enduring and fos- 
tering your petulance. Begone, sir. Leave this 
castle to-night — I will send you the means of 
subsistence till you find some honest mode of sup- 
port, though I fear your imaginary grandeur will 
be above all others, save those of rapine and vio- 
lence. Begone, sir, and see my face no more. ” 

The page threw himself at her feet in an agony 
of sorrow. “ My dear and honoured mistress ” — 
he said, but was unable to bring out another 
syllable. 

“ Arise, sir, ” said the Lady, " and let go my 
mantle — hypocrisy is a poor cloak for ingratitude. * 


74 


THE ABBOT. 


" I am incapable of either, madam, ” said tha 
page, springing up with the hasty start of passion 
which belonged to his rapid and impetuous temper. 
“ Think not I meant to implore permission to re- 
side here ; it has been long my determination to 
leave Avenel, and I will never forgive myself for 
having permitted you to say the word begone, ere 
I said, ‘ I leave you. ’ I did but kneel to ask youi 
forgiveness for an ill-considered word used in the 
height of displeasure, but which ill became my 
mouth, as addressed to you. Other grace I asked 
not — you have do^e much for me — but I repeat, 
that you better know what you yourself have done, 
than what I have suffered. ” 

" Eoland, ” said the Lady, somewhat appeased, 
and relenting towards her favourite, “ you had me 
to appeal to when you were aggrieved. You were 
neither called upon to suffer wrong, nor entitled to 
resent it, when you were under my protection. ” 

“ And what, ” said the youth, “ if I sustained 
wrong from those you loved and favoured, was I 
to disturb your peace with idle tale-bearings and 
eternal complaints ? No, madam ; I Jiave borne my 
own burden in silence, and without disturbing you 
with murmurs ; and the respect which you accuse 
me of wanting, furnishes the only reason why 1 
have neither appealed to you, nor taken vengeance 
at my own hand in a manner far more effectual. It 
is well, however, that we part. I was not born to 
be a stipendiary, favoured by his mistress, until 
ruined by the calumnies of others. May Heaven 
multiply its choicest blessings on your honoured 
head ; and, for your sake, upon all that are dear to 
you ! ” 

He was about to leave the apartment, when the 


THE ABBOT. 


75 


Lady called upon him to return. He stood still, 
while she thus addressed him : “ It was not my 
intention, nor would it be just, even in the height 
of my displeasure, to dismiss you without the 
means of support; take this purse of gold. ” 

" Forgive me. Lady,” said the boy, “ and let me 
go hence with the consciousness that I have not 
been degraded to the point of accepting alms. If 
my poor services can be placed against the expense 
of my apparel and my maintenance, I only remain 
debtor to you for my life, and that alone is a debt 
which I can never repay ; put up then that purse, 
and only say, instead, that you do not part from 
me in anger. ” 

" No, not in anger, ” said the Lady, " in sorrow 
rather for your wilfulness ; but take the gold — you 
cannot but need it. ” 

" May God evermore bless you for the kind tone 
and the kind word ! but the gold I cannot take. 
I am able of body, and do not lack friends so 
wholly as you may think ; for the time may come 
that I may yet show myself more thankful than by 
mere words. ” He threw himself on his knees, 
kissed the hand which she did not withdraw, and 
then hastily left the apartment. 

Lilias, for a moment or two, kept her eye fixed 
on her mistress, who looked so unusually pale, 
that she seemed about to faint ; but the Lady in- 
stantly recovered herself, and declining the assis- 
tance which her attendant offered her, walked to 
her own apartment. 


CHAPTER VI. 


• 

Thou hast each secret of the household, Francis. 

I dare be sworn thou hast been in the buttery 
Steeping thy curious humour in fat ale, 

And in the butler’s tattle — ay, or chatting 
With the glib waiting-woman o’er her comfits — 

These bear the key to each domestic mystery. 

Old Play. 

Upon the morrow succeeding the scene we have 
described, the disgraced favourite left the castle ; 
and at breakfast-time the cautious old steward and 
Mrs. Lilias sat in the apartment of the latter per- 
sonage, holding grave converse on the important 
event of the day, sweetened by a small treat of 
comfits, to which th^ providence of Mr. Wingate 
had added a little flask, of racy canary. 

“ He is gone at last, ” said the abigail, sipping 
her glass ; " and here is to his good journey. ” 

“ Amen, ” answered the steward, gravely ; “ I 
wish the poor deserted lad no ill. ” 

“ And he is gone like a wild-duck, as he came, ” 
continued Mrs. Lilias ; " no lowering of draw- 
bridges, or pacing along causeways, for him. My 
master has pushed off in the boat which they call 
the little Herod, (more shame to them for giv- 
ing the name of a Christian to wood and iron,) and 
has rowed himself by himself to the further side of 
the loch, and off and away with himself, and left 
all his finery strewed about his room. I wonder 
who is to clean his trumpery out after him — though 
the things are worth lifting, too. ” 


THE ABBOT. 


77 


“ Doubtless, Mrs. Lilias, ” answered the master 
of the household ; “ in the which case, I am free to 
think, they will not long cumber the floor. ” 

“ And now tell me, Mr. Wingate, ” continued the 
damsel, “ do not the very cockles of your heart re- 
joice at the house being rid of this upstart whelp, 
that flung us all into shadow ? ” 

“ Why, Mrs. Lilias, ” replied Wingate, " as to 
rejoicing — those who have lived as long in great 
families as has been my lot, will be in no hurry 
to rejoice at any thing. And for Eoland Graeme, 
though he may be a good riddance in the main, 
yet what says the very sooth proverb, ‘ Seldom 
comes a better. ’ ” 

“ Seldom comes a better, indeed ! ” echoed Mrs. 
Lilias. “ I say, never can come a worse, or one 
half so bad. He might have been the ruin of our 
poor dear mistress,” (here she used her kerchief,) 
“ body and soul, and estate too ; for she spenti more 
coin on his apparel than on any four servants about 
the house. ” 

" Mrs. Lilias, ” said the sage steward, " I do 
opine that our mistress requireth not this pity at 
our hands, being in all respects competent to take 
care of her own body, soul, and estate into the 
bargain. ” 

" You would not mayhap have said so, ” an- 
swered the waiting-woman, " had you seen how 
like Lot’s wife she looked when young master took 
his leave. My mistress is a good lady, and a vir- 
tuous, and a well-doing lady, and a well-spoken of 
— but I would not Sir Halbert had seen her last 
evening for two and a plack. ” 

" Oh, foy ! foy ! foy ! ” reiterated the steward ; 

" servants should hear and see, and say nothing. 


78 


THE ABBOT. 


Besides that, my Lady is utterly devoted to Sir 
Halbert, as well she may, being, as he is, the most 
renowned knight in these parts. ” 

" Well, well, ” said the abigail, “ I mean no 
more harm ; but they that seek least renown 
abroad, are most apt to find quiet at home, that’s 
all; and my Lady’s lonesome situation is to be 
considered, that made her fain to take up with the 
first beggar’s brat that a dog brought her out of 
the loch. ” 

“ And, therefore, ” said the steward, “ I say, re- 
joice not too much, or too hastily, Mrs. Lilias ; for 
if your Lady wished a favourite to pass away the 
time, depend upon it, the time will not pass lighter 
now that he is gone. So she will have another 
favourite to choose for herself, and be assured, if 
she wishes such a toy, she will not lack one. ” 

" And where should she choose one, but among 
her o'^n tried and faithful servants,” said Mrs. 
Lilias, “ wh9 have broken her bread, and drank 
her drink, for so many years ? I have known many 
a lady as high as she, that never thought either 
of a friend or favourite beyond their own waiting- 
woman — always having a proper respect, at the 
same time, for their old and faithful master of the 
household, Mr. Wingate. ” 

" Truly, Mrs. Lilias, ” replied the steward, " I do 
partly see the mark at which you shoot, but I 
doubt your bolt will fall short. Matters being 
with our Lady as it likes you to suppose, ut will 
neither be your crimped pinners, Mrs. Lilias, 
(speaking of them with due respect,) nor my silver 
hair, or golden chain, that will fill up the void 
which Eoland Graeme must needs leave in our 
Lady’s leisure. There will be a learned young 


THE ABBOT. 


79 


divine with some new doctrine — a learned leech 
with some new drug — a bold cavalier, who will 
not be refused the favour of wearing her colours at 
a running at the ring — a cunning harper that 
could harp the heart out of woman’s breast, as they 
say Signor David Eizzio did to our poor Queen ; — 
these are the sort of folk who supply the loss of a 
well-favoured favourite, and not an old steward, or 
a middle-aged waiting-woman. ” 

“ Well, ” replied Lilias, “ you have experience. 
Master Wingate, and truly I would my master 
would leave off his pricking hither and thither, 
and look better after the affairs of his household. 
There will be a papistrie among us next, for what 
should I see among master’s clothes but a string of 
gold beads ? I promise you, aves and credos both ! 
— I seized on them like a falcon. ” 

" I doubt it not, I doubt it not, ” said the stew- 
ard, sagaciously nodding his head ; “ I have often 
noticed that the boy had strange observances which 
savoured of popery, and that he was very jealous to 
conceal them. But you will find the Catholic un- 
der the Presbyterian cloak as often as the knave 
under the friar’s hood — what then ? we are all 
mortal. — Eight proper heads they are, ” he added, 
looking attentively at them, “ and may weigh four 
ounces of fine gold. ” 

" And I will have them melted down presently, ” 
she said, “ before they be the misguiding of some 
poor blinded soul. ” 

" Very cautious, indeed, Mrs. Lilias, ” said the 
steward, nodding his head in assent. 

" I will have them made, ” said Mrs. Lilias, 
“ into a pair of shoe-buckles ; I would not wear the 
Pope’s trinkets, or whatever has once borne the 


8o 


THE ABBOT. 


shape of them, one inch above my instep, were 
they diamonds instead of gold — But this is what 
has come of Father Ambrose coming about the 
castle, as demure as a cat that is about to steal 
cream. ” 

“ Father Ambrose is our master’s brother,” said 
the steward, gravely. 

“ Very true. Master Wingate, ” replied the dame ; 
" but is that a good reason why he should pervert 
the King’s liege subjects to papistrie ? ” 

“ Heaven forbid, Mrs. Lilias, ” answered the 
sententious major-domo ; " but yet there are worse 
folk than the papists. ” 

“ I wonder where they are to be found, ” said the 
waiting- woman, with some asperity ; " but I be- 
lieve, Master Wingate, if one were to speak to you 
about the devil himself, you would say there were 
worse people than Satan. ” 

" Assuredly I might say so, ” replied the steward, 
“ supposing that I saw Satan standing at my 
elbow. ” 

The waiting-woman started, and having ex- 
claimed “ God bless us ! ” added, “ I wonder, Mr. 
Wingate, you can take pleasure in frightening one 
thus. ” 

“ Nay, Mrs. Lilias, I had no such purpose, ” was 
the reply ; " but look you here — the papists are 
put down for the present, but who knows how long 
this word present will last ? There are two great 
popish earls in the north of England, that abomi- 
nate the very word reformation ; I mean the 
Northumberland and Westmoreland Earls, men of 
power enough to shake any throne in Christen- 
dom. Then, though our Scottish King be, God 
bless him, a true Protestant, yet he is but a boy ; 


THE ABBOT. 


8i 


and here is his mother that was our Queen — I 
trust there is no harm to say God bless her too — 
and she is a Catholic ; and many begin to think 
she has had but hard measure, such as the Hamiltons 
in the west, and some of our Border clans here, 
and the Gordons in the north, who are all wishing 
to see a new world; and if such a new world 
should chance to come up, it is like that the Queen 
will take back her own crown, and that the mass 
and the cross will come up, and then down go pul- 
pits, Geneva gowns, and black silk skull-caps. ” 

“ And have you, Mr. Jasper Wingate, who have 
heard the word, and listened unto pure and pre- 
cious Mr. Henry Warden, have youj I say, the 
patience to speak, or but to think, of popery, coming 
down on us like a storm, or of the woman Mary 
again making the royal seat of Scotland a throne 
of abomination ? No marvel that you are so civil 
to the cowled monk. Father Ambrose, when he 
comes hither with his downcast eyes that he never 
raises to my Lady’s face, and with his low sweet- 
toned voice, and his benedicites, and his benisons ; 
and who so ready to take them kindly as Mr. 
Wingate ? ” • 

“ Mrs. Lilias, ” replied the butler, with an air 
which was intended to close the debate, “ there are 
reasons for all things. If I received Father Am- 
brose debonairly, and suffered him to steal a word 
now and then with this same Eoland Graeme, it was 
not that I cared a brass bodle for his benison or 
malison either, but only because I respected my mas- 
ter’s blood. And who can answer, if Mary come 
in again, whether he may not be as stout a tree to 
lean to as ever his brother hath proved to us ? For 
down goes the Earl of Murray when the Queen 

VOL. I. — 6 


82 


THE ABBOT. 


comes by her own again ; and good is his luck if 
he can keep the head on his own* shoulders. And 
down goes our Knight, with the Earl, his patron •, 
and who so like to mount into his empty saddle as 
this same Father Ambrose ? The Pope of Home 
can soon dispense with his vows, and then we 
should have Sir Edward the soldier, instead of 
Ambrose the priest. ” 

Anger and astonishment kept Mrs. Lilias silent, 
while her old friend, in his self-complacent man- 
ner, was making known to her his political specu- 
lations. At length her resentment found utterance 
in words of great ire and scorn. “ What, Master 
Wingate! have you eaten my mistress’s bread, to 
say nothing of my master’s, so many years, that 
you could live to think of her being dispossessed 
of her own Castle of Avenel, by a wretched monk, 
who is not a drop’s blood to her in the way of re- 
lation ? I, that am but a woman, would try first 
whether my rock or his cowl were the better metal. 
Shame on you, Master Wingate ! If I had not held 
you as so old an acquaintance, this should have 
gone to my Lady’s ears, though I had been called 
pickthank and tale-pyet for my pains, as when I 
told of Eoland Grseme shooting the wild swan. ” 

Master Wingate was somewhat dismayed at per- 
ceiving that the detail which he had given of his far- 
sighted political views had produced on his hearer 
rather suspicion of his fidelity than admiration 
of his wisdom, and endeavoured, as hastily as pos- 
sible, to apologize and to explain, although inter- 
nally extremely offended at the unreasonable view, 
as he deemed it,* which it had pleased Mistress 
Lilias Bradbourne to take of his expressions ; and 
mentally convinced, that her disapprobation of his 


THE ABBOT. 


83 


sentiments arose solely out of the consideration, 
that though Father Ambrose, supposing him to be- 
come the master of the castle, would certainly 
require the services of a steward, yet those of a 
waiting-woman would, in the supposed circum- 
stances, be altogether superfluous. 

After his explanation had been received as ex- 
planations usually are, the two friends separated ; 
Lilias to attend the silver whistle which called her 
to her mistress’s chamber, and the sapient major- 
domo to the duties of his own department. They 
parted with less than their usual degree of rever- 
ence and regard ; for the steward felt that his 
worldly wisdom was rebuked by the more disin- 
terested attachment of the waiting-woman, and 
Mistress Lilias Bradbourne was compelled to con- 
sider her old friend as something little better than 
a time-server. 


CHAPTEE VII. 


When I hae a saxpence under my thumb, 

Then I get credit in ilka town ; 

But when I am poor, they bid me gae by — 

O poverty parts good company ! 

Old Song. 


While the departure of the page afforded subject 
for the conversation which we have detailed in our 
last chapter, the late favourite was far advanced on 
his solitary journey, without well knowing what 
was its object, or what was likely to be its end. 
He had rowed the skiff in which he left the castle, 
to the side of the lake most distant from the vil- 
lage, with the desire of escaping from the notice 
of the inhabitants. His pride whispered, that he 
would be, in his discarded state, only the subject 
of their wonder and compassion ; and his generos- 
ity told him, that any mark of sympathy which 
his situation should excite, might be unfavourably 
reported at the castle. A trifling incident con- 
vinced him he had little to fear for his friends on 
the latter score. He was met by a young man some 
years older than himself, who had on former occa- 
sions been but too happy to be permitted to share 
in his sports in the subordinate character of his 
assistant. Ealph Fisher approached to greet him, 
with all the alacrity of an humble friend. 

“ What, Master Eoland, abroad on this side, and 
without either hawk or houn^ ? ” 


THE ABBOT. 


8S 


“Hawk or hound,” said Roland, “I will never 
perhaps hollo to again. I have been dismissed — 
that is, I have left the castle.” 

Ralph was surprised. “ What ! you are to pass 
into the Knight’s service, and take the black jack 
and the lance ? ” 

“Indeed,” replied Roland Graeme, “I am not — 
I am now leaving the service of Avenel for ever.” 

“And whither are you going, then?” said the 
young peasant. 

“ Nay, that is a question which it craves time to 
answer — I have that matter to determine yet,” re- 
plied the disgraced favourite. 

“Nay, nay,” said Ralph, “ I warrant you it is the 
same to you which way you go — my Lady would 
not dismiss you till she had put some lining into the 
pouches of your doublet ” 

“ Sordid slave ! ” said Roland Graeme, “ dost thou 
think I would have accepted a boon from one who 
was giving me over a prey to detraction and to ruin, 
at the instigation of a canting priest and a meddling 
serving-woman ? The bread that I had bought with 
such an alms would have choked me at the first 
mouthful.” 

Ralph looked at his quondam friend with an air 
of wonder not unmixed with contempt. “ Well,” he 
said, at length, “ no occasion for passion — each man 
knows his own stomach best — but, were I on a 
black moor at this time of day, not knowing whither 
I was going, I should be glad to have a broad piece 
or two in my pouch, come by them as I could. — 
But perhaps you will go with me to my father’s — 
that is, for a night, for to-morrow we expect my 
uncle Menelaus and all his folk ; but, as I said, for 
one night ” 


86 


THE ABBOT. 


The cold-blooded limitation of the offered shelter 
to one night only, and that tendered most unwil- 
lingly, offended the pride of the discarded favourite. 

“ I would rather sleep on the fresh heather, as I 
have done many a night on less occasion,” said Ko- 
land Graeme, “ than in the smoky garret of your 
father, that smells of peat-smoke and usquebaugh 
like a Highlander’s plaid.” 

“ You may choose, my master, if you are so nice,” 
replied Ealph Fisher ; “ you may be glad to smell a 
peat-fire, and usquebaugh too, if you journey long 
in the fashion you propose. You might have said 
God-a-mercy for your proffer, though — it is not 
every one will put themselves in the way of ill-will 
by harbouring a discarded serving-man.” 

“ Ealph,” said Eoland Graeme, “ I would pray you 
to remember that I have switched you before now, 
and this is the same riding-wand which you have 
tasted.” 

Ealph, who was a thickset clownish figure, ar- 
rived at his full strength, and conscious of the most 
complete personal superiority, laughed contemptu- 
ously at the threats of the slight-made stripling. 

“ It may be the same wand,” he said, “ but not 
the same hand ; and that is as good rhyme as if it 
were in a ballad. Look you, my Lady’s page that 
was, when your switch was up, it was no fear of 
you, but of your betters, that kept mine down — 
and I wot not what hinders me from clearing old 
scores with this hazel rung, and showing you it was 
your Lady’s livery-coat which I spared, and not your 
flesh and blood. Master Eoland.” 

In the midst of his rage, Eoland Grseme was just 
wise enough to see, that by continuing this alterca- 
tion, he would subject himself to very rude treat- 


THE ABBOT. 


87 


ment from the boor, who was so much older and 
stronger than himself ; and while his antagonist, 
with a sort of jeering laugh of defiance, seemed to 
provoke the contest, he felt the full bitterness of 
his own degraded condition, and burst into a passion 
of tears, which he in vain endeavoured to conceal 
with both his hands. 

Even the rough churl was moved with the dis- 
tress of his quondam companion. 

“Nay, Master Eoland,” he said, “I did but as 
’twere jest with thee — I would not harm thee, man, 
were it but for old acquaintance sake. But ever 
look to a man’s inches ere you talk of switching — 
why, thine arm, man, is but like a spindle compared 
to mine. — But hark, I hear old Adam Woodcock 
hollowing to his hawk — Come along, man, we will 
have a merry afternoon, and go jollily to my father’s, 
in spite of the peat-smoke and usquebaugh to boot. 
Maybe we may put you into some honest way of 
winning your bread, though it’s hard to come by in 
these broken times.” 

The unfortunate page made no answer, nor did 
he withdraw his hands from his face, and Fisher 
continued in what he imagined a suitable tone of 
comfort. 

“ Why, man, when you were my Lady’s minion, 
men held you proud, and some thought you a papist, 
and I wot not what ; and so, now that you have no 
one to bear you out, you must be companionable and 
hearty, and wait on the minister’s examinations, and 
put these things out of folk’s head ; and if he says 
you are in fault, you must jouk your head to the 
stream ; and if a gentleman, or a gentleman’s gentle- 
man, gives you a rough word, or a light blow, you 
must only say, thank you for dusting my doublet, 


88 


THE ABBOT. 


or the like, as I have done by you. — But hark to 
Woodcock’s whistle again. Come, and I will teach 
you all the trick on’t as we go on.” 

- “ I thank you,” said Koland Graeme, endeavouring 
to assume an air of indifference and of superiority ; 

hut I have another path before me, and were it 
otherwise, I could not tread in yours.” 

“Very true. Master Eoland,” replied the clown; 
“ and every man knows his own matters best, and 
so I will not keep you from the path, as you say. 
Give us a grip of your hand, man, for auld lang syne. 

— What ! not clap palms ere we part ? — well, so 
be it — a wilful man will have his way, and so, 
farewell, and the blessing of the morning to you.” 

“ Good-morrow — good-morrow,” said Eoland, has- 
tily ; and the clown walked lightly off, whistling as 
he went, and glad, apparently, to be rid of an ac- 
quaintance, whose claims might be troublesome, and 
who had no longer the means to be serviceable to 
him. 

Eoland Graeme compelled himself to walk on 
while they were within sight of each other, that 
his former intimate might not augur any vacillation 
of purpose, or uncertainty of object, from his remain- 
ing on the same spot ; but the effort was a painful 
one. He seemed stunned, as it were, and giddy ; 
the earth on which he stood felt as if unsound, and 
quaking under his feet like the surface of a bog ; 
and he had once or twice nearly fallen, though the 
path he trode was of firm greensward. He kept reso- 
lutely moving forward, in spite of the internal agita- 
tion to which these symptoms belonged, until the 
distant form of his acquaintance disappeared behind 
the slope of a hill, when his heart failed at once ; 
and, sitting down on the turf, remote from human 


THE ABBOT, 


89 


ken, he gave way to the natural expressions of 
wounded pride, grief, and fear, and wept with un- 
restrained profusion and unqualified bitterness. 

When the first violent paroxysm of his feelings 
had subsided, the deserted and friendless youth felt 
that mental relief which usually follows such dis- 
charges of sorrow. The tears continued to chase 
each other down his cheeks, but they were no longer 
accompanied by the same sense of desolation ; an 
afflicting yet milder sentiment was awakened in his 
mind, by the recollection of his benefactress, of the 
unwearied kindness which had attached her to him, 
in spite of many acts of provoking petulance, now 
recollected as offences of a deep dye, which had pro- 
tected him against the machinations of others, as 
well as against the consequences of his own folly, 
and would have continued to do so, had not the ex- 
cess of his presumption compelled her to withdraw 
her protection. 

“ Whatever indignity I have borne,” he said, “ has 
been the just reward of my own ingratitude. And 
have I done well to accept the hospitality,.the more 
than maternal kindness, of my protectress, yet to 
detain from her the knowledge of my religion ? — 
but she shall know that a Catholic has as much 
gratitude as a puritan — that I have been thought- 
less, but not wicked — that in my wildest moments 
I have loved, respected, and hohoured her — and 
that the orphan boy might indeed be heedless, but 
was never ungrateful ! ” 

He turned, as these thoughts passed through his 
mind, and began hastily to retread his footsteps 
towards the castle. But he checked the first eager- 
ness of his repentant haste, when he reflected on 
the scorn and contempt with which the family were 


90 


THE ABBOT. 


likely to see the return of the fugitive, humbled, as 
they must necessarily suppose him, into a supplicant, 
who requested pardon for his fault, and permission 
to return to his service. He slackened his pace, but 
he stood not still. 

“ I care not,” he resolutely determined ; “ let them 
wink, point, nod, sneer, speak of the conceit which 
is humbled, of the pride which has had a fall — I 
care not ; it is a penance due to my folly, and I 
will endure it with patience. But if she also, my 
benefactress, if she also should think me sordid and 
weak-spirited enough to beg, not for her pardon 
alone, but for a renewal of the advantages which 
I derived from her favour — her suspicion of my 
meanness I cannot — I will not brook.” 

He stood still, and his pride, rallying with con- 
stitutional obstinacy against his more just feeling, 
urged that he would incur the scorn of the Lady 
of Avenel, rather than obtain her favour, by fol- 
lowing the course which the first ardour of his re- 
pentant feelings had dictated to him. 

“ If I had but some plausible pretext,” he thought, 
“ some ostensible reason for my return, some ex- 
cuse to allege which might show I came not as a 
degraded supplicant, or a discarded menial, I might 
go thither — hut as I am, I cannot — my heart 
would leap from its place and burst.” 

As these thoughts swept through his mind, some- 
thing passed in the air so near him as to dazzle his 
eyes, and almost to brush the plume in his cap. He 
looked up — it was the favourite falcon of Sir Hal- 
bert, which, flying around his head, seemed to claim 
his attention, as that of a well-known friend. Eo- 
land extended his arm, and gave the accustomed 
whoop, and the falcon instantly settled on his wrist. 


THE ABBOT. 


91 


and began to prune itself, glancing at the youth 
from time to time an acute and brilliant beam of its 
hazel eye, which seemed to ask why he caressed it 
not with his usual fondness. 

“ Ah, Diamond ! ” he said, as if the bird under- 
stood him, “thou and I must be strangers hence- 
forward. Many a gallant stoop have I seen thee 
make, and many a brave heron strike down ; but 
that is all gone and over, and there is no hawking 
more for me ! ” 

“And why not. Master Eoland,” said Adam 
Woodcock the falconer, who came at that instant 
from behind a few alder bushes which had concealed 
him from view, “ why should there be no more hawk- 
ing for you ? Why, man, what were our life with- 
out our sports ? — thou know’st the jolly old song — 

‘And rather would Allan in dungeon lie, 

Than live at large where the falcon cannot fly; 

And Allan would rather lie in Sexton’s pound, 

Than live where he follow’d not the merry hawk and 
hound.’ ” 

The voice of the falconer was hearty and friendly, 
and the tone in which he half-sung, half-recited 
his rude ballad, implied honest frankness and cor- 
diality. But remembrance of their quarrel, and its 
consequences, embarrassed Eoland, and prevented 
his reply. The falconer saw his hesitation, and 
guessed the cause. 

“ What now,” said he, “ Master Eoland ? do you, 
who are half an Englishman, think that I, who am 
a whole one, would keep up anger against you, and 
you in distress ? That were like some of the Scots, 
(my master's reverence always excepted,) who can 
be fair and false, and wait their time, and keep their 


92 


THE ABBOT. 


mind, as they say, to themselves, and touch pot and 
flagon ’with you, and hunt and hawk with you, and, 
after all, when time serves, pay off some old feud 
with the point of the dagger. Canny Yorkshire 
has no memory for such old sores. Why, man, an 
you had hit me a rough blow, maybe I would rather 
have taken it from you, than a rough word from 
another; for you 'have a good notion of falconry, 
though you stand up for washing the meat for the 
eyasses. So give us your hand, man, and bear no 
malice.” 

Koland, though he felt his proud blood rebel at 
the familiarity of honest Adam’s address, could not 
resist its downright frankness. Covering his face 
with the one hand, he held out the other to the 
falconer, and returned with readiness his friendly 
grasp. 

“ Why, this is hearty now,” said Woodcock ; 

I always said you had a kind heart, though you 
have a spice of the devil in your disposition, that is 
certain. I came this way with the falcon on pur- 
pose to find you, and yon half-bred lubbard told me 
which way you took flight. You ever thought too 
much of that kestril-kite. Master Eoland, and he 
knows nought of sport, after all, but what he caught 
from you. I saw how it had been betwixt you, and 
I sent him out of my company with a wanion — I 
would rather have a rifler on my perch than a false 
knave at my elbow — and now. Master Eoland, tell 
me what way wing ye ? ” 

“That is as God pleases,” replied the page, with 
a sigh which he could not suppress. 

“ Nay, man, never droop a feather for being cast 
off,” said the falconer ; “ who knows but you may 
soar the better and fairer flight for all this yet? 


THE ABBOT. 


93 


Look at Diamond there, ’tis a noble bird, and 
shows gallantly with his hood and bells and jesses ; 
but there is many a wild falcon im Norway that 
would not change properties with him — And that 
is what I would say of you. You are no longer my 
Lady’s page, and you will not clothe so fair, or feed 
so well, or sleep so soft, or show so gallant — What 
of all that ? if you are not her page, you are your 
own man, and may go where you will, without 
minding whoop or whistle. The worst is the loss 
of the sport, but who knows what you may come 
to ? • They say that Sir Halbert himself, I speak 
with reverence, was once glad to be the Abbot’s 
forester, and now he has hounds and hawks of his 
own, and Adam Woodcock for a falconer to the 
boot.” • 

“ You are right, and say well, Adam,” answered 
the youth, the blood mantling in his cheeks, “ the 
falcon will soar higher without his bells than with 
them, though the bells be made of silver.” 

“ That is cheerily spoken,” replied the falconer ; 
“ and whither now ? ” 

“I thought of going to the Abbey of Kenna- 
quhair,” answered Koland Grgeme, “ to ask the 
counsel of Father Ambrose.” 

‘‘And joy go with you,” said the falconer, 
“ though it is likely you may find the old monks in 
some sorrow ; they say the commons are threaten- 
ing to turn them out of their cells, and make a 
devil’s mass of it in the old church, thinking they 
have forborne that sport too long ; and troth I am 
clear of the same opinion.” 

“Then will Father Ambrose be the better of 
having a friend beside him ! ” said the page, 
manfully. 


94 


THE ABBOT. 


“Ay, but, my young fearnought,” replied the 
falconer, “ the friend will scarce be the better of 
being beside ‘Father Ambrose — he may come by 
the redder’s lick, and that is ever the worst of the 
battle ” 

“ I care not for that,” said the page ; “ the dread 
of a lick should not hold me back ; but I fear I may 
bring trouble between the brothers by visiting 
Father Ambrose. I will tarry to-night at Saint 
Cuthbert’s cell, where the old priest will give me a 
night’s shelter ; and I will send to Father Ambrose 
to ask his advice before I go down to the convent.’' 

“ By Our Lady,” said the falconer, “ and that is a 
likely plan ! — And now,” he continued, changing 
his frankness of manner for a sort of awkward em- 
barrassment, as if he had somewhat to say that he 
had no ready means to bring out — “ and now, you 
wot well that I wear a pouch for my hawk’s meat, ^ 
and so forth, but wot ye what it is lined with. 
Master Roland ? ” 

“ With leather, to be sure,” replied Roland, some- 
what surprised at the hesitation with which Adam 
Woodcock asked a question apparently so simple. 

“With leather, lad?” said Woodcock; “ay, and 
with silver to the boot of that. See here,” he said, 
showing a secret slit in the lining of his bag of 
office — “ here they are, thirty good Harry groats as 
ever were struck in bluff old Hal’s time, and ten of 
them are right heartily at your service; and now 
the murder is out.” 


1 This same bag, like every thing belonging to falconry, was 
esteemed an honourable distinction, and worn often by the no- 
bility and gentry. One of the Somervilles of Camnethan was 
called Sir John with the red 6a9, because it was his wont to wear 
his liawking pouch covered with satiu of that colour. 


THE ABBOT. 


95 , 

Boland’s first idea was to refuse this assistance ; 
but he recollected the vows of humility which he 
had just taken upon him, and it occurred that this 
was the opportunity to put his new-formed resolu- 
tion to the test, .^ssuming a strong command of 
himself, he answered Adam Woodcock with as 
much frankness as his nature permitted him to 
wear, in doing what was so contrary to his inclina- 
tions, that he accepted thankfully of his kind offer, 
while, to soothe his own reviving pride, he could 
not help adding, “ he hoped soon to requite the 
obligation.” 

“ That as you list — that as you list, young man,” 
said the falconer, with glee, counting out and de- 
livering to his young friend the supply he had so 
generously offered, and then adding with great 
cheerfulness, — Now you may go through the 
world ; for he that can back a horse, wind a horn, 
hollow a greyhound, fly a hawk, and play at sword 
and buckler, with a whole pair of shoes, a green 
jacket, and ten lily-white groats in his pouch, may 
bid Father Care hang himself in his own jesses. 
Farewell, and God be with you ! ” 

So saying, and as if desirous to avoid the thanks 
of his companion, he turned hastily round, and left 
Boland Grseme to pursue his journey alone. 


CHAPTEK VIII. 


The sacred tapers’ lights are gone, 

Grey moss has clad the altar stone, 

The holy image is o’erthrown, 

The bell has ceased to toll, 

The long ribb’d aisles are burst and shrunk. 

The holy shrines to ruin sunk, 

Departed is the pious monk, 

God’s blessing on his soul ! 

Rediviva. 

The Cell of Saint Cuthbert, as it was called, marked, 
or was supposed to mark, one of those resting- 
places which that venerable saint was pleased 
to assign to his monks, when his convent, being 
driven from Lindisfern by the Danes, became a 
peripatetic society of religionists, and, bearing their 
patron’s body on their shoulders, transported him 
from place to place through Scotland and the bor- 
ders of England, until he was pleased at length to 
spare them the pain of carrying him farther, and to 
choose his ultimate place of rest in the lordly towers 
of Durham. The odour of his sanctity remained 
behind him at each place where he had granted the 
monks a transient respite from their labours ; and 
proud were those who could assign, as his tempo- 
rary resting-place, any spot within their vicinity. 
There were few cells more celebrated and honoured 
than that of Saint Cuthbert, to which Poland Graeme 
now bent his way, situated considerably to the north- 
west of the great Abbey of Kennaquhair, on which 
it was dependent. In the neighbourhood were some 


THE ABBOT. 


97 


of those recommendations which weighed with the 
experienced priesthood of Home, in choosing their 
sites for places of religion. 

There was a well, possessed of some medicinal 
qualities, which, of course, claimed the saint for its 
guardian and patron, and occasionally produced 
some advantage to the recluse who inhabited his 
cell, since none could reasonably expect to benefit 
by the fountain who did not extend their bounty 
to the saint’s chaplain. A few roods of fertile land 
afforded the monk his plot of garden ground ; an 
eminence well clothed with trees rose behind the 
cell, and sheltered it from the north and the east, 
while the front, opening to the south-west, looked 
up a wild but pleasant valley, down which wandered 
a lively brook, which battled with every stone that 
interrupted its passage. 

The cell itself was rather plainly than rudely 
constructed — a low Gothic building with two small 
apartments, one of which served the priest for his 
dwelling-place, the other for his chapel. As there 
were few of the secular clergy who durst venture 
to reside so near the Border, the assistance of this 
monk in spiritual affairs had not been useless to the 
community, while the Catholic religion retained the 
ascendency; as he could marry, christen, and ad- 
minister the other sacraments of the Eoman church. 
Of late, however, as the Protestant doctrines gained 
ground, he had found it convenient to live in close 
retirement, and to avoid, as much as possible, draw- 
ing upon himself observation or animadversion. 
The appearance of his habitation, however, when 
Koland Gaaeme came before it in the close of the 
evening, plainly showed that his caution had been 
finally ineffectuaL 
VOL. I. — 7 


98 


THE ABBOT. 


The page’s first movement was to knock at the 
door, when he observed, to his surprise, that it was 
open, not from being left unlatched, but because, 
beat off its upper hinge, it was only fastened to the 
door-post by the lower, and could therefore no longer 
perform its functions. Somewhat alarmed at this, 
and receiving no answer when he knocked and called, 
Koland began to look more at leisure upon the ex- 
terior of the little dwelling, before he ventured to 
enter it. The flowers, which had been trained with 
care against the walls, seemed to have been recently 
torn down, and trailed their dishonoured garlands 
on the earth ; the latticed window was broken and 
dashed in. The garden, which the monk had main- 
tained by his constant labour in the highest order 
and beauty, bore marks of having been lately trod 
down and destroyed by the hoofs of animals and the 
feet of men. 

The sainted spring had not escaped, (g) It was 
wont to rise beneath a canopy bf ribbed arches, with 
which the devotion of elder times had secured and 
protected its healing waters. These arches were 
now almost entirely demolished, and the stones of 
which they were built were tumbled into the well, 
as if for the purpose of choking up and destroying 
the fountain, which, as it had shared in other days 
the honour of the saint, was, in the present, doomed 
to partake his unpopularity. Part of the roof had 
been pulled down from the house itself, and an at- 
tempt had been mafde with crows and levers upon 
one of the angles, by which several large corner- 
stones had been forced out of their place ; but the 
solidity of ancient mason-work had proved too great 
for the time or patience of the assailants, and they 
had relinquished their task of destruction. Such 


THE ABBOT. 


99 


dilapidated buildings, after the lapse of years, during 
which nature has gradually covered the effects of 
violence with creeping plants, and with weather- 
stains, exhibit, amid their decay, a melancholy beauty. 
But when the visible effects of violence appear raw 
and recent, there is no feeling to mitigate the sense 
of devastation with which they impress the specta- 
tors ; and such was now the scene on which the 
youthful page gazed, with the painful feelings it 
was qualified to excite. 

When his first momentary surprise was over, 
Koland Graeme was at no loss to conjecture the cause 
of these ravages. The destruction of the Popish ed- 
ifices did not take place at once throughout Scotland, 
but at different times, and according to the spirit 
which actuated the reformed clergy, some of whom 
instigated their hearers to these acts of demolition, 
and others, with better taste and feeling, endeavoured 
to protect the ancient shrines, while they desired to 
see them purified from the objects which had^ at- 
tracted idolatrous devotion. From time to time, 
therefore, the populace of the Scottish towns and 
villages, when instigated either by their own feel- 
ings of abhorrence for Popish superstition, or by the 
doctrines of the more zealous preachers, resumed the 
work of destruction, and exercised it upon some se- 
questered church, chapel, or cell, which had escaped 
the first burst of their indignation against the religion 
of Kome. In many places, the vices of the Catholic 
clergy, arising out of the wealth and the corruption 
of that tremendous hierarchy, furnished too good an 
apology for wreaking vengeance upon the splendid 
edifices which they inhabited ; and of this an old 
Scottish historian gives a remarkable instance. 

“Why mourn ye,” said an aged matron, seeing 


too 


THE ABBOT. 


the discontent of some of the citizens, while a stately 
convent was burnt by the multitude, — “ why mourn 
ye for its destruction ? If you knew half the flagi- 
tious wickedness which has been perpetrated within 
that house, you would rather bless the divine judg- 
ment, which permits not even the senseless walls 
that screened such profligacy, any longer to cumber 
Christian ground ! ” 

But although, in many instances, the destruction 
of the Eoman Catholic buildings might be, in the 
matron’s way of judging, an act of justice, and in 
others an act of policy, there is no doubt that the 
humour of demolishing monuments of ancient piety 
and munificence, and that in a poor country like 
Scotland, where there was no chance of their being re- 
placed, was both useless, mischievous, and barbarous. 

In the present instance, the unpretending and 
quiet seclusion of the monk of St. Cuthbert’s had 
hitherto saved him from the general wreck ; but it 
would seem ruin had now at length reached him. 
Anxious to discover if he had at least escaped per- 
sonal harm, Eoland Gra3me entered the half-ruined 
cell. 

The interior of the building was in a state which 
fully justified the opinion he had formed from its 
external injuries. The few rude utensils of the soli- 
tary’s hut were broken down, and lay scattered on 
the floor, where it seemed as if a fire had been made 
with some, of the fragments to destroy the rest of 
his property, and to consume, in particular, the rude 
old image of St. Cuthbert, in its episcopal habit, 
which lay on the hearth like Dagon of yore, shat- 
tered with the axe and scorched with the flames, 
but only partially destroyed. In the little apart- 
ment which served as a chapel, the altar was over- 


THE ABBOT. 


loi 


thrown, and the four huge stones of which it had 
been once composed lay scattered around the floor. 
The large stone crucifix which occupied the niche be- 
hind the altar, and fronted the supplicant while he 
paid his devotion there, had been pulled down, and 
dashed by its own weight into three fragments. 
There were marks of sledge-hammers on each of 
these ; yet the image had been saved from utter de- 
molition by the size and strength of the remaining 
fragments, which, though much injured, retained 
enough of the original sculpture to show what it had 
been intended to represent . } 

Eoland Grjeme, secretly nursed in the tenets of 
Eome, saw with horror the profanation of the most 
sacred emblem, according to his creed, of our holy 
religion. 

“ It is the badge of our redemption,” he said, 
which the felons have dared to violate — would to 
God my weak strength were able to replace it — my 
humble reverence, to atone for the sacrilege ! ” 

He stooped to the task he first meditated, and 
with a sudden, and to himself almost an incredible 
exertion of power, he lifted up the one extremity 
of the lower shaft of the cross, and rested it upon 
the edge of the large stone which served for its 
pedestal. Encouraged by this success, he applied 
his force to the other extremity, and, to his own 
astonishment, succeeded so far as to erect the lower 
end of the limb into the socket, out of which it had 
been forced, and to place this fragment of the image 
upright. 

While he was employed in this labour, or rather 
at the very moment when he had accomplished the 
elevation of the fragment, a voice, in thrilling and 
1 Note II. — CeU of St. Cuthbert. 


102 


THE ABBOT. 


well-known accents, spoke behind him these words 
— “ Well done, thou good and faithful servant ! 
Thus would I again meet the child of my love — 
the hope of my aged eyes.” 

Koland turned round in astonishment, and the 
tall commanding form of Magdalen Graeme stood 
beside him. She was arrayed in a sort of loose 
habit, in form like that worn by penitents in 
Catholic countries, but black in colour, and approach- 
ing as near to a pilgrim’s cloak as it was safe to 
wear in a country where the suspicion of Catholic 
devotion in many places endangered the safety of 
those who were suspected of attachment to the 
ancient faith. Koland Grseme threw himself at 
her feet. She raised and embraced him, with affec- 
tion indeed, but not unmixed with gravity which 
amounted almost to sternness. 

“ Thou hast kept well,” she said, “ the bird in 
thy bosom. ^ As a boy, as a youth, thou hast held 
fast thy faith amongst heretics — thou hast kept thy 
secret and mine own amongst thine enemies. I 
wept when I parted from you — I, who seldom weep, 
then shed tears, less for thy death than for thy 
spiritual danger — I dared not even see thee to bid 
thee a last farewell — my grief, my swelling grief, 
had betrayed me to these heretics. But thou hast 
been faithful — down, down on thy knees before the 
holy sign, which evil men injure and blaspheme; 
down, and praise saints and angels for the grace 
they have done thee, in preserving thee from the 
leprous plague which cleaves to the house in which 
thou wert nurtured ! ” 

1 An expression used by Sir Ralph Percy, slain in the battle 
of Hedgely-moor in 1464, when dying, to express his having 
preserved unstained his fidelity to the House of Lancaster. 


THE ABBOT. 


103 


If, my mother — so I must ever call you,” 
replied Graeme, — “if I am returned such as thou 
wouldst wish me, thou must thank the care of the 
pious father Ambrose, whose instructions confirmed 
your early precepts, and taught me at once to be 
faithful and to be silent.” 

“ Be he blessed for it ! ” said she, “ blessed in the 
cell and in the field, in the pulpit and at the altar 
— the saints rain blessings on him ! — they are 
just, and employ his pious care to counteract the 
evils which his detested brother works against 
the realm and the church. But he knew not of thy 
lineage ? ” 

“ I could not myself tell him that, ” answered 
Boland. “ I knew but darkly from your words, that 
Sir Halbert Glendinning holds mine inheritance, and 
that I am of blood as noble as runs in the veins of 
any Scottish Baron — these are things not to be 
forgotten, but for the explanation I must now look 
to you.” 

“ And when time suits, thou shalt not ask for it 
in vain. But men say, my son, that thou art bold 
and sudden ; and those who bear such tempers are 
not lightly to be trusted with what will strongly 
move them.” 

“ Say rather, my mother,” returned Boland Graeme, 
“ that I am laggard and cold-blooded — what 
patience or endurance can you require of which 
he is not capable, who for years has heard his 
religion ridiculed and insulted, yet failed to plunge 
his dagger into the blasphemer’s bosom ! ” 

“ Be contented, my child,” replied Magdalen 
Graeme ; “ the time, which then and even now 
demands patience, will soon ripen to that of effort 
and action — great events are on the wing, and thou 


104 


THE ABBOT. 


— thou shalt have thy share in advancing them. — 
Thou hast relinquished the service of the Lady 
of Avenel?” 

“ I have been dismissed from it, my mother — 
I have lived to be dismissed, as if I were the 
meanest of the train.” 

“ It is the better, my child,” replied she ; “ thy 
mind will be the more hardened to undertake that 
which must be performed.” 

“Let it be nothing, then, against the Lady of 
Avenel,” said the page, “ as thy look and words 
seem to imply. I have eaten her bread — I have 
experienced her favour — I will neither injure nor 
betray her.” 

“Of that, hereafter, my son,” said she ; “ but 
learn this, that it is not for thee to capitulate in thy 
duty, and to say this will I do, and that will I leave 
undone — No, Eoland! God and man will no longer 
abide the wickedness of this generation. — Seest 
thou these fragments — knowest thou what they 
represent ? — and canst thou think it is for thee to 
make distinctions amongst a race so accursed by 
Heaven, that they renounce, violate, blaspheme, and 
destroy, whatsoever we are commanded to believe 
in, whatsoever we are commanded to reverence ? ” 

As she spoke, she bent her head towards the 
broken image, with a countenance in which strong 
resentment and zeal were mingled with an expres- 
sion of ecstatic devotion ; she raised her left hand 
aloft as in the act of making a vow, and thus pro- 
ceeded : “ Bear witness for me, blessed symbol of 
our salvation, bear witness, holy saint, within whose 
violated temple we stand, that as it is not for 
vengeance of my own that my hate pursues these 
people, so neither, for any favour or earthly affection 


THE ABBOT. 


105 


towards any amongst them, will I withdraw my 
hand from the plough, when it shall pass through 
the devoted furrow ! Bear witness, holy saint, once 
thyself a wanderer and fugitive as we are now — 
bear witness, Mother of Mercy, Queen of Heaven 
— bear witness, saints and angels ! ” 

In this high strain of enthusiasm she stood, rais- 
ing her eyes through the fractured roof of the vault, 
to the stars which now began to twinkle through the 
pale twilight, while the long grey tresses which hung 
down over her shoulders waved in the night-breeze, 
which the chasm and fractured windows admitted 
freely. 

Koland Greeme was too much awed by early hab- 
its, as well as by the mysterious import of her words, 
to ask for further explanation of the purpose she ob- 
scurely hinted at. Hor did she farther press him on 
the subject ; for, having concluded her prayer or ob- 
testation, by clasping her hands together with sol- 
emnity, and then signing herself with the cross, she 
again addressed her grandson, in a tone more adapted 
to the ordinary business of life. 

“Thou must hence,” she said, “Eoland, thou 
must hence, but not till morning. — And now, 
how wilt thou shift for thy night’s quarters ? — 
thou hast been more softly bred than when we 
were companions in the misty hills of Cumberland 
and Liddesdale.” 

“ I have at least preserved, my good mother, the 
habits which I then learned — can lie hard, feed 
sparingly, and think it no hardship. Since I was a 
wanderer with thee on the hills, I have been a hunter, 
and fisher, and fowler, and each of these is accus- 
tomed to sleep freely in a worse shelter than -sacrilege 
has left us here.” 


io6 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Than sacrilege has left us here ! ” said the matron, 
repeating his words, and pausing on them, — “ Most 
true, my son ; and God’s faithful children are now 
worst sheltered, when they lodge in God’s own house 
and the demesne of his blessed saints. We shall 
sleep cold here, under the night- wind, which whistles 
through the breaches that heresy has made. They 
shall lie warmer who made them — ay, and through 
a long hereafter ! ” 

Notwithstanding the wild and singular expressions 
of this female, she appeared to retain towards Eoland 
Grseme, in a strong degree, that affectionate and sed- 
ulous love which women bear to their nurslings, and 
the children dependent on their care. It seemed as 
if she would not permit him to do aught for himself 
which in former days her attention had been used to 
do for him, and that she considered the tall stripling 
before her as being equally dependent on her careful 
attention as when he was the orphan child, who had 
owed all to her affectionate solicitude. 

“ What hast thou to eat now ? ” she said, as, leaving 
the chapel, they went into the deserted habitation of 
the priest ; “ or what means of kindling a fire, to de- 
fend thee from this raw and inclement air ? Poor 
child! thou hast made slight provision for a long 
journey ; nor hast thou skill to help thyself by wit, 
when means are scanty. But Our Lady has placed 
by thy side one to whom want, in all its forms, is as 
familiar as plenty and splendour have formerly been. 
And with want, Eoland, come the arts of which she 
is the inventor.” 

With an active and officious diligence, which 
strangely contrasted with her late abstracted and high 
tone of Catholic devotion, she set about her domestic 
arrangements for the evening. A pouch, which was 


THE ABBOT. 


107 


hidden under her garment, produced a flint and steel, 
and from the scattered fragments around (those per- 
taining to the image of Saint Cuthbert scrupulously 
excepted) she obtained splinters sufficient to raise a 
sparkling and cheerful fire on the hearth of the de- 
serted cell. 

“ And now,” she said, “ for needful food.” 

“ Think not of it, mother,” said Eoland, “ unless 
you yourself feel hunger. It is a little thing for me 
to endure a night’s abstinence, and a small atone- 
ment for the necessary transgression of the rules of 
the Church, upon which I was compelled during my 
stay in the castle.” 

“ Hunger for myself ! ” answered the matron — 
“ Know, youth, that a mother knows not hunger till 
that of her child is satisfied.” And with affection- 
ate inconsistency, totally different from her usual 
manner, she added, “ Eoland, you must not fast ; you 
have dispensation ; you are young, and to youth food 
and sleep are necessaries not to he dispensed 
with. Husband your strength, my child, — your 
sovereign, your religion, your country, require it. 
Let age macerate by fast and vigil a body which 
can only suffer; let youth, in these active times, 
nourish the limbs and the strength which action 
requires.” 

While she thus spoke, the scrip, which had pro- 
duced the means of striking fire, furnished provision 
for a meal ; of which she herself scarce partook, but 
anxiously watched her charge, taking a pleasure, re- 
sembling that of an epicure, in each morsel which he 
swallowed, with a youthful appetite which absti- 
nence had rendered unusually sharp. Eoland readily 
obeyed her recommendations, and ate the food which 
she so affectionately and earnestly placed before him. 


io8 


THE ABBOT. 


But she shook her head when invited by him in re- 
turn to partake of the refreshment her own cares 
had furnished ; and when his solicitude became 
more pressing, she refused him in a loftier tone of 
rejection. 

“ Young man,” she said, “ you know not to whom, 
or of what, you speak. They to whom Heaven de- 
clares its purpose, must merit its communication by 
mortifying the senses ; they have that within which 
requires not the superfluity of earthly nutriment, 
which is necessary to those who are without the 
sphere of the Vision. To them the watch spent in 
prayer is a refreshing slumber, and the sense of do- 
ing the will of Heaven is a richer banquet than the 
tables of monarchs can spread before them ! — But 
do thou sleep soft, my son,” she said, relapsing from 
the tone of fanaticism into that of maternal affection 
and tenderness ; — “do thou sleep sound while life is 
but young with thee, and the cares of the day can be 
drowned in the slumbers of the evening. Different 
is thy duty and mine, and as different the means by 
which we ‘must qualify and strengthen ourselves to 
perform it. From thee is demanded strength of 
body — from me, strength of soul.” 

When she thus spoke, she prepared with ready 
address a pallet-couch, composed partly of the dried 
leaves which had once furnished a bed to the soli- 
tary, and the guests who occasionally received his 
hospitality, and which, neglected by the destroyers 
of his humble cell, had remained little disturbed in 
the corner allotted for them. To these her care 
added some of the vestures which lay torn and scat- 
tered on the floor. With a zealous hand she selected 
all such as appeared to have made any part of the 
sacerdotal vestments, laying them aside as sacred 


THE ABBOT. 


X09 


from ordinary purposes, and with the rest she made, 
with dexterous promptness, such a bed as a weary 
man might willingly stretch himself on ; and during 
the time she was preparing it, rejected, even with 
acrimony, any attempt which the youth made to as- 
sist her, or any entreaty which he urged that she 
should accept of the place of rest for her own use. 
“ Sleep thou,” said she, “ Koland Graeme, sleep thou 
— the persecuted, the disinherited orphan — the son 
of an ill-fated mother — sleep thou ! I go to pray in 
the Chapel beside thee.” 

The manner was too enthusiastically earnest, too 
obstinately firm, to permit Eoland Graeme to dis- 
pute her will any farther. Yet he felt some shame 
in giving way to it. It seemed as if she had for- 
gotten the years that had passed away since their 
parting ; and expected to meet,, in the tall, in- 
dulged, and wilful youth, whom she had recovered, 
the passive obedience of the child whom she had 
left in the Castle of Avenel. This did not fail to 
hurt her grandson’s characteristic and constitutional 
pride. He obeyed, indeed, awed into submission by 
the sudden recurrence of former subordination, and 
by feelings of affection and gratitude. Still, how- 
ever, he felt the yoke. 

“ Have I relinquished the hawk and the hound,” 
he said, “ to become the pupil of her pleasure, as 
if I were still a child ? I, whom even my envious 
mates allowed to be superior in those exercises 
which they took most pains to acquire, and which 
came to me naturally, as if a knowledge of them had 
been my birthright ? This may not, and must not 
be. I will be no reclaimed sparrow-hawk, who is, 
carried' hooded on a woman’s wrist, and has his 
quarry only shown to him when his eyes are un- 


no 


THE ABBOT. 


covered for his flight. I will know her purpose ere 
it is proposed to me to aid it.” 

These, and other thoughts, streamed through the 
mind of Boland Graeme ; and although wearied with 
the fatigues of the day, it was long ere he could 
compose himself to rest. 


CHAPTEE IX. 


Kneel with me — swear it — ’tis not in words I trust, 
Save when they’re fenced with an appeal to Heaven. 

Old Play. 


After passing the night in that sound sleep foi 
which agitation and fatigue had prepared him, Eo- 
land was awakened by the fresh morning air, and 
by the beams of the rising sun. His first feeling 
was that of surprise ; for, instead of looking forth 
from a turret window on the waters of the Lake of 
Avenel, which was the prospect his former apart- 
ment afforded, an unlatticed aperture gave him the 
view of the demolished garden of the banished an- 
chorite. He sate up on his couch of leaves, and 
arranged in his memory, not without wonder, the 
singular events of the preceding day, which appeared 
the more surprising the more he considered them. 
He had lost the protectress of his youth, and, in the 
same day, he had recovered the guide and guardian 
of his childhood. The former deprivation he felt 
ought to be matter of unceasing regret, and it seemed 
as if the latter could hardly be the subject of un- 
mixed self-congratulation. He remembered this 
person, who had stood to him in the relation of a 
mother, as equally affectionate in her attention, and 
absolute in her authority. A singular mixture of 
love and fear attended upon his early remembrances 
as they were connected with her ; and the fear that 
she might desire to resume the same absolute con- 


II2 


THE ABBOT. 


trol over his motions — a fear which her conduct of 
yesterday did not tend much to dissipate — weighed 
heavily against the joy of this second meeting. 

“She cannot mean,” said his rising pride, “to 
lead and direct me as a pupil, when I am at the age 
of judging of my own actions ? — this she cannot 
mean, or meaning it, will feel herself strangely 
deceived.” 

A sense of gratitude towards the person against 
whom his heart thus rebelled, checked this course 
of feeling. He resisted the thoughts which invol- 
untarily arose in his mind, as he would have re- 
sisted an actual instigation of the foul fiend ; and, 
to aid him in his struggle, he felt for his beads. 
But, in his hasty departure from the Castle of Ave- 
nel, he had forgotten and left them behind him. 

“ This is yet worse,” he said ; “ but two things 
I learned of her under the most deadly charge of 
secrecy — to tell my beads, and to conceal that I did 
so ; and I have kept my word till now ; and when 
she shall ask me for the rosary, I must say I have 
forgotten it ! Do I deserve she should believe me 
when I say I have kept the secret of my faith, when 
I set so light by its symbol ? ” 

He paced the floor in anxious agitation. In fact, 
his attachment to his faith was of a nature very dif- 
ferent from that which animated the enthusiastic 
matron, but which, notwithstanding, it would have 
been his last thought to relinquish. 

The early charges impressed on him by his grand- 
mother, had been instilled into a mind and memory 
of a character peculiarly tenacious. Child as he was, 
he was proud of the confidence reposed in his dis- 
cretion, and resolved to show that it had not been 
rashly intrusted to him. At the same time, his 


THE ABBOT. 


113 

resolution was no more than that of a child, and 
must, necessarily, have gradually faded away under 
the operation both of precept and example, during 
his residence at the Castle of Avenel, but for the 
exhortations of Father Ambrose, who, in his lay 
estate, had been called Edward Glendinning. This 
zealous monk had been apprized, by an unsigned 
letter placed in his hand by a pilgrim, that a child 
educated in the Catholic faith was now in the 
Castle of Avenel, perilously situated (so was the 
scroll expressed) as ever the three children who were 
cast into the fiery furnace of persecution. The let- 
ter threw upon Father Ambrose the fault, should 
this solitary lamb, unwillingly left within the de- 
mesnes of the prowling wolf, become his final prey. 
There needed no farther exhortation to the monk 
than the idea that a soul might be endangered, and 
that a Catholic might become an apostate ; and he 
made his visits more frequent than . usual to the 
Castle of Avenel, lest, through want of the private 
encouragement and instruction which he always 
found some opportunity of dispensing, the church 
should lose a proselyte, and, according to the Komish 
creed, the devil acquire a soul. 

Still these interviews were rare ; and though they 
encouraged the solitary boy to keep his secret and 
hold fast his religion, they were neither frequent 
nor long enough to inspire him with any thing be- 
yond a blind attachment to the observances which 
the priest recommended. He adhered to the forms 
of his religion, rather because he felt it would be 
dishonourable to change that of his fathers, than 
from any rational conviction or sincere belief of its 
mysterious doctrines. It was a principal part of the 
distinction which, in his own opinion, singled him 

•. . VOL. I. — 8 


THE ABBOT. 


114 

out from those with whom he lived, and gave him 
an additional, though an internal and concealed 
reason, for contemning those of the household who 
showed an undisguised dislike of him, and for 
hardening himself against the instructions of the 
chaplain, Henry Warden. 

“The fanatic preacher,” he thought within him- 
self, during some one of the chaplain’s frequent dis- 
courses against the Church of Home, “he little 
knows whose ears are receiving his profane doc- 
trine, and with what contempt and abhorrence they 
hear his blasphemies against the holy religion, by 
which kings have been crowned, and for which 
martyrs have died ! ” 

But in such proud feelings of defiance of heresy, 
as it was termed, and of its professors, which asso- 
ciated the Catholic religion with a sense of gener- 
ous independence, and that of the Protestants with 
the subjugation of his mind and temper to the direc- 
tion of Mr. Warden, began and ended the faith 
of Poland Grseme, who, independently of the pride 
of singularity, sought not to understand, and had 
no one to expound to him, the peculiarities of the 
tenets which he professed. His regret, therefore, 
at missing the rosary which had been conveyed to 
him through the hands of Bather Ambrose, was 
rather the shame of a soldier who has dropped his 
cockade, or badge of service, than that of a zealous 
votary who had forgotten a visible symbol of his 
religion. 

His thoughts on the subject, however, were mor- 
tifying, and the more so from apprehension that his 
negligence must reach the ears of his relative. He 
felt it could be no one but her who had secretly 
transmitted these beads to Father Ambrose for his 


THE ABBOT. 115 

use, and that his carelessness was but an indifferent 
requital of her kindness. 

“ Nor will she omit to ask me about them,” said 
he to himself ; “ for hers is a zeal which age cannot 
quell ; and if she has not quitted her wont, my 
answer will not fail to incense her.” 

While he thus communed with himself, Magda- 
len Graeme entered the apartment. “ The blessing 
of the morning on your youthful head, my son,” 
she said, with a solemnity of expression which 
thrilled the youth to the heart, so sad and earnest 
did the benediction flow from her lips, in a tone 
where devotion was blended with affection. “ And 
thou hast started thus early from thy couch to catch 
the first breath of the dawn ? But it is not well, 
my Koland. Enjoy slumber while thou canst ; the 
time is not far behind .when the waking eye must 
be thy portion, as well as mine.” 

She uttered these words with an affectionate and 
anxious tone, which showed, that devotional as were 
the habitual exercises of her mind, the thoughts of 
her nursling yet bound her to earth with the cords 
of human affection and passion. 

But she abode not long in a mood which she 
probably regarded as a momentary dereliction of 
her imaginary high calling — “ Come,” she said, 
“ youth, up and be doing — It is time that we leave 
this place.” 

“And whither do we go ?” said the young man ; 
“ or what is the object of our journey ? ” ^ 

The matron stepped back, and gazed on him with 
surprise, not unmingled with displeasure. 

“ To what purpose such a question ? ” she said ; 
“ is it not enough that I lead the way ? Hast thou 
lived with heretics till thou hast learned to instal 


ii6 


THE ABBOT. 


the vanity of thine own private judgment in place 
of due honour and obedience ? ” 

“ The time,” thought Koland Grseme within him» 
self, is already come, when I must establish my 
freedom, or be a willing thrall for ever — I feel that 
I must speedily look to it.” 

She instantly fulfilled his foreboding, by recur- 
ring to the theme by which her thoughts seemed 
most constantly engrossed, although, when she 
pleased, no one could so perfectly disguise her 
religion. 

“ Thy beads, my son — hast thou told thy beads ? ” 

Eoland Grseme coloured high ; he felt the storm 
was approaching, but scorned to avert it by a 
falsehood. 

“I have forgotten my rosary,” he said, “at the 
Castle of Avenel.” 

“ Forgotten thy rosary ! ” she exclaimed ; “ false 
both to religion and to natural duty, hast thou lost 
what was sent so far, and at such risk, a token of 
the truest affection, that should have been, every 
bead of it, as dear to thee as thine eyeballs ? ” 

“ I am grieved it should have so chanced, mother,” 
replied the youth, “ and much did I value the token, 
as coming from you. For what remains, I trust to 
win gold enough, when I push my way in the 
world ; and till then, beads of black oak, or a rosary 
of nuts, must serve the turn.” 

“ Hear him ! ” said his grandmother ; “ young as 
he is, he hath learned already the lessons of the 
devil’s school ! The rosary consecrated by the Holy 
Father himself, and sanctified by his blessings, is 
but a few knobs of gold, whose value may be re- 
placed by the wages of his profane labour, and 
whose virtue may be supplied by a string of hazel 


THE ABBOT. 


117 


nuts!— This is heresy — So Henry Warden, the 
wolf who ravages the flock of the Shepherd, hath 
taught thee to speak and to think.” 

“ Mother,” said Roland Graeme, “ I am no heretic ; 
I believe and I pray according to the rules of our 
church — This misfortune I regret, but I cannot 
amend it.” 

“ Thou canst repent it, though,” replied his spirit- 
ual directress, “repent it in dust and ashes, atone 
for it by fasting, prayer, and penance, instead of 
looking on me with a countenance as light as if 
thou hadst lost but a button from thy cap.” 

“Mother,” said Roland, “be appeased; I will 
remember my fault in the next confession which I 
have space and opportunity to make, and will do 
whatever the priest may require of me in atonement. 
For the heaviest fault I can do no more. — But, 
mother,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “let 
me not incur your farther displeasure, if I ask 
whither our journey is bound, and what is its object. 
I am no longer a child, but a man, and at my own 
disposal, with down upon my chin, and a sword by 
iny side — I will go to the end of the world with 
you to do your pleasure ; but I owe it to myself to 
enquire the purpose and direction of our travels.” 

“You owe it to yourself, ungrateful boy ? ” re- 
plied his relative, passion rapidly supplying the col- 
our which age had long chased from her features, 
— “ to yourself you owe nothing — you can owe 
nothing — to me you owe everything — your life 
when an infant — your support when a child — the 
meana of instruction and the hopes of honour — 
and, sooner than thou shouldst abandon the noble 
cause to which I have devoted thee, would I see thee 
lie a corpse at my feet ! ” 


ii8 


THE ABBOT. 


Eoland was alarmed at the vehement agitation 
with which she spoke, and which threatened to 
overpower her aged frame ; and he hastened to re- 
ply, — "I forget nothing of what I owe to you, my 
dearest mother — show me how my blood can tes- 
tify my gratitude, and you shall judge if I spare it. 
But blindfold obedience has in it as little merit as 
reason.” 

“ Saints and angels ! ” replied Magdalen, “ and 
do I hear these words from the child of my hopes, 
the nursling by whose bed I have kneeled, and for 
whose weal I have wearied every saint in Heaven 
with prayers ? Eoland, by obedience only canst 
thou show thy affection and thy gratitude. What 
avails it that you might perchance adopt the course 
I propose to thee, were it to be fully explained? 
Thou wouldst not then follow my command, but 
thine own judgment ; thou wouldst not do the will 
of Heaven, communicated through thy best friend, 
to whom thou owest thine all ; but thou wouldst 
observe the ^blinded dictates of thine own imperfect 
reason. Hear me, Eoland ! a lot calls thee — soli- 
cits thee — demands thee — the proudest to which 
man can be destined, and it uses the voice of thine 
earliest, thy best, thine only friend — Wilt thou re- 
sist it ? Then go thy way — leave me here — my 
hopes on earth are gone and withered — I will kneel 
me down before yonder profaned altar, and when 
the raging heretics return, they shall dye it with the 
blood of a martyr ! ” 

“But, my dearest mother,” said Eoland Graeme, 
whose early recollections of her violence were for- 
midably renewed by these wild expressions of reck- 
less passion, “ I will not forsake you — I will abide 
with you — worlds shall not force me from your side 


THE ABBOT. 


119 

— I will protect — I will defend you — I will live 
with you, and die for you ! ” 

“ One word, my son, were worth all these — say 
only, ‘ I will obey you.’ ” 

“Doubt it not, mother,” replied the youth, “I 
will, and that with all my heart ; only ” 

“Nay, I receive no qualifications of thy pro- 
mise,” said Magdalen Graeme, catching at the word, 
“ the obedience which I require is absolute ; and a 
blessing on thee, thou darling memory of my be- 
loved child, that thou hast power to make a promise 
so hard to human pride ! Trust me well, that in 
the design in which thou dost embark, thou hast for 
thy partners the mighty and the valiant, the power 
of the church, and the pride of the noble. Succeed 
or fail, live or die, thy name shall be among those 
with whom success or failure is alike glorious, death 
or life alike desirable. Forward, then, forward ! life 
is short, and our plan is laborious — Angels, saints, 
and the whole blessed host of heaven, have their 
eyes even now on this barren and blighted land of 
Scotland — What say I ? on Scotland ? — their eye 
is on us, Koland — on the frail woman, on the inex- 
perienced youth, who, amidst the ruins which 
sacrilege hath made in the holy place, devote them- 
selves to God’s cause, and that of their lawful Sov- 
ereign. Amen, so be it ! The blessed eyes of saints 
and martyrs, which see our resolve, shall witness 
the execution ; or their ears, which hear our vow, 
shall hear our death-groan drawn in the sacred 
cause ! ” 

While thus speaking, she held Eoland Graeme 
firmly with one hand, while she pointed upward 
with the other, to leave him, as it were, no means 
of protest against the obtestation to which he was 


THE ABBOT. 


tio 

thus made a party. When she had finished her ap- 
peal to Heaven, she left him no leisure for farther 
hesitation, or for asking any explanation of her pur- 
pose; but passing with the same ready transition 
as formerly, to the solicitous attentions of an anx- 
ious parent, overwhelmed him with questions con- 
cerning his residence in the Castle of Avenel, and 
the qualities and accomplishments he had acquired. 

“ It is well,” she said, when she had exhausted 
her enquiries, “ my gay goss-hawk ^ hath been well 
trained, and will soar high ; but those who bred 
him will have cause to fear as well as to wonder at 
his flight. — Let us now,” she said, “ to our morn- 
ing meal, and care not though it be a scanty one. 
A few hours’ walk will bring us to more friendly 
quarters.” 

They broke their fast accordingly, on such frag- 
ments as remained of their yesterday’s provision, 
and immediately set out on their farther journey. 
Magdalen Graeme led the way, with a firm and 
active step much beyond her years, and Koland 
Graeme followed, pensive and anxious, and far from 
satisfied with the state of dependence to which he 
seemed again to be reduced. 

“ Am I for ever,” he said to himself, “ to be de- 
voured with the desire of independence and free 
agency, and yet to be for ever led on, by circum- 
stances, to follow the will of others ? ” 


1 Note III. — Goss-hawk. 


CHAPTEE X 


She dwelt unnoticed and alone, 

Beside the springs of Dove ; 

A maid whom there was none to praise. 

And very few to love. 

WOEDSWORTH. 

In the course of their journey the travellers spoke 
little to each other. Magdalen Graeme chanted, 
from time to time, in a low voice, a part of some 
one of those beautiful old Latin hymns which be- 
long to the Catholic service, muttered an Ave or a 
Credo, and so passed on, lost in devotional contem- - 
plation. The meditations of her grandson were 
more bent on mundane matters ; and many a time, 
as a moorfowl arose from the heath, and shot along 
the moor, uttering his bold crow of defiance, he 
thought of the jolly Adam Woodcock, and his 
trusty goss-hawk ; or, as they passed a thicket 
where the low trees and bushes were intermingled 
with tall fern, furze, and broom, so as to form a 
thick and intricate cover, his dreams were of a roe- 
buck and a brace of gaze-hounds. But frequently 
his mind returned to the benevolent and kind mis- 
tress whom he had left behind him, offended justly, 
and unreconciled .by any effort of his. 

“My step would be lighter,” he thought, “and 
so would my heart, could I but have returned to 
see her for one instant, and to say. Lady, the 
orphan-boy was wild, but not ungrateful!” 


122 


THE ABBOT. 


Travelling in these divers moods, about the hour 
of noon they reached a small straggling village, in 
which, as usual, were seen one or two of those pre- 
dominating towers, or peel-houses, which, for rea- 
sons of defence elsewhere detailed, were at that 
time to be found in every Border hamlet. A brook 
flowed beside the village, and watered the valley 
in which it stood. There was also a mansion at 
the end of the village, and a little way separated 
from it, much dilapidated, and in very bad order, 
but appearing to have been the abode of persons of 
some consideration. The situation was agreeable, 
being an angle formed by the stream, bearing three 
or four large sycamore-trees, which were in full 
leaf, and served to relieve the dark appearance of 
the mansion, which was built of a deep-red stone. 
The house itself was a large one, but was now obvi- 
ously too big for the inmates; several windows 
were built up, especially those which opened from 
the lower story; others were blockaded in a less 
substantial manner. The court before the door, 
which had once been defended with a species of 
low outer-wall, now ruinous, was paved, but the 
stones were completely covered with long grey 
nettles, thistles, and other weeds, which, shooting up 
betwixt the flags, had displaced many of them from 
their level. Even matters demanding more peremp- 
tory attention had been left neglected, in a manner 
which argued sloth or poverty in the extreme. The 
stream, undermining a part of the bank near an 
angle of the ruinous wall, had brought it down, 
with a corner turret, the ruins of which lay in the 
bed of the river. The current, interrupted by the 
ruins which it had overthrown, and turned yet 
nearer to the site of the tower, had greatly enlarged 


THE ABBOT. 


123 


the breach it had made, and was in the process of 
undermining the ground on which the house itself 
stood, unless it were speedily protected by sufficient 
bulwarks. 

All this attracted Eoland Graeme’s observation, 
as they approached the dwelling by a winding path, 
which gave them, at intervals, a view of it from 
different points. 

“If we go to yonder house,” he said to his 
mother, “ I trust it is but for a short visit. It looks 
as if two rainy days from the north-west would 
send the whole into the brook.” 

“ You see but with the eyes of the body,” said 
the old woman ; “ God will defend his own, though 
it be forsaken and despised of men. Better to dwell 
on the sand, under his law, than fly to the rock of 
human trust.” 

As she thus spoke, they entered the court before 
the old mansion, and Eoland could observe that the 
front of it had formerly been considerably orna- 
mented with carved work, in the same dark-coloured 
freestone of which it was built. But all these orna- 
ments had been broken down and destroyed, and 
only the shattered vestiges of niches and entabla- 
tures now strewed the place which they had once 
occupied. The larger entrance in front was walled 
up, but a little footpath, which, from its appearance, 
seemed to be rarely trodden, led to a small wicket, 
defended by a door well clenched with iron-headed 
nails, at which Magdalen Graeme knocked three 
times, pausing betwixt each knock, until she heard 
an answering tap from within. At the last knock, 
the wicket was opened by a pale thin female, who 
said, “ Benedicti qui veniunt in nomine Domini"' 
They entered, and the portress hastily shut behind 


124 


THE ABBOT. 


them the wicket, and made fast the massive fasten- 
ings by which it was secured. 

The female led the way through a narrow en- 
trance, into a vestibule of some extent, paved with 
stone, and having benches of the same solid mate- 
rial ranged around. At the upper end was an oriel 
window, but some of the intervals formed by the 
stone shafts and mullions were blocked up, so that 
the apartment was very gloomy. 

Here they stopped, and the mistress of the man- 
sion, for such she was, embraced Magdalen Graeme, 
and greeting her by the title of sister, kissed her, 
with much solemnity, on either side of the face. 

“ The blessing of Our Lady be upon you, my sis- 
ter,” were her next words ; and they left no doubt 
upon Boland’s mind respecting the religion of their 
hostess, even if he could have suspected his vener- 
able and zealous guide of resting elsewhere than in 
the habitation of an orthodox Catholic. They spoke 
together .a few words in private, during which he had 
leisure to remark more particularly the appearance 
of his grandmother’s friend. 

Her age might be betwixt fifty and sixty ; her 
looks had a mixture of melancholy and unhappiness, 
that bordered on discontent, and obscured the re- 
mains of beauty which age had still left on her 
. features. Her dress was of the plainest and most 
ordinary description, of a dark colour, and, like Mag- 
dalen Graeme’s, something approaching to a religious 
habit. Strict neatness, and cleanliness of person, 
seemed to intimate, that if poor, she was not re- 
duced to squalid or heart-broken distress, and that 
she was still sufficiently attached to life to retain a 
taste for its decencies, if not its elegancies. Her 
manner, as well as her features and appearance, 


THE ABBOT. 


125 


argued an original condition and education far above 
the meanness of her present appearance. In short, 
the whole figure was such as to excite the idea, 
“ That female must have had a history worth know- 
ing.” While Koland Graeme was making this very 
reflection, the whispers of the two females ceased, 
and the mistress of the mansion, approaching him, 
looked on his face and person with much attention, 
and, as it seemed, some interest. 

“ This, then,” . she said, addressing his relative, 
“is the child of thine unhappy daughter, sister 
Magdalen ; and him, the only shoot from your 
ancient tree, you are willing to devote to the Good 
Cause ? ” 

“ Yes, by the rood,” answered Magdalen Grseme, 
in her usual tone of resolved determination, “ to tho 
good cause I devote him, flesh and fell, sinew and 
limb, body and soul ! ” 

“ Thou art a happy woman, sister Magdalen,” an- 
swered her companion, “that, lifted so high above 
human affection and human feeling, thou canst bind 
such a victim to the horns of the altar. Had I been 
called to make such sacrifice — to plunge a youth 
so young and fair into the plots and bloodthirsty 
dealings of the time, not the patriarch Abraham, 
when he led Isaac up the mountain, would have 
rendered more melancholy obedience.” 

She then continued to look at Koland with a 
mournful aspect of compassion, until the intentness 
of her gaze occasioned his colour to rise, and he was 
about to move out of its influence, when he was 
stopped by his grandmother with one hand, while 
with the other she divided the hair upon his fore- 
head, which was now crimson with bashfulness, 
while she added, with a mixture of proud affectioF 


THE ABBOT. 


.1 26 

and firm resolution, — ‘'Ay, look at him well, my 
sister, for on a fairer face thine eye never rested. I 
too, when first I saw him, after a long separation, 
felt as the worldly feel, and was half shaken in my 
purpose. But no wind can tear a leaf from the 
withered tree which has long been stripped of its 
foliage, and no mere human casualty can awaken 
the mortal feelings which have long slept in the 
calm of devotion.” 

While the old woman thus spoke, her manner 
gave the lie to her assertions, for the tears rose to 
her eyes while she added, “ But the fairer and the 
more spotless the victim, is it not, my sister, the 
more worthy of acceptance ? ” She seemed glad to 
escape from the sensations which agitated her, and 
instantly added, “ He will escape, my sister — there 
will be a ram caught in the thicket, and the hand of 
our revolted brethren shall not be on the youthful 
Joseph. Heaven can defend its own rights, even 
by means of babes and sucklings, of women and 
beardless boys.” 

“ Heaven hath left us,” said the other female ; 
“ for our sins and our fathers’ the succours of the 
blessed saints have abandoned this accursed land. 
We may win the crown of martyrdom, but not that 
of earthly triumph. One, too, whose prudence was 
at this deep crisis so indispensable, has been called to 
a better world. The Abbot Eustatius is no more.” 

“ May his soul have mercy ! ” said Magdalen 
Graeme, “and may Heaven, too, have mercy upon 
us, who linger behind in this bloody land ! His loss 
is indeed a perilous blow to our enterprise ; for who 
remains behind possessing his far-fetched experience, 
his self-devoted zeal, his consummate wisdom, and 
his undaunted courage ! He hath fallen with the 


THE ABBOT. 


127 


church's standard in his hand, hut God will raise 
up another to lift the blessed banner. Whom have 
the Chapter elected in his room ? ” 

“It is rumoured no one of the few remaining 
brethren dare accept the office. The heretics have 
sworn that they will permit no future election, and 
will heavily punish any attempt to create a new 
Abbot of Saint Mary’s. Conjuraverunt inter se 
jprincipes, dicenteSj Projiciamus laqueos ejus!' 

“ QuousquCy Bomine ! ” — ejaculated Magdalen ; 
“this, my sister, were indeed a perilous and fatal 
breach in our band ; but I am firm in my be- 
lief, that another will arise in the place of him 
so untimely removed. — Where is thy daughter 
Catherine ? ” 

“ In the parlour,” answered the matron, “ but ” 

She looked at Eoland Graeme, and muttered 

something in the ear of her friend. 

“ Fear it not,” answered Magdalen Graeme, “ it is 
both lawful and necessary — fear nothing from him 
— I would he were as well grounded in the faith by 
which alone comes safety, as he is free from thought, 
deed, or ‘speech of villainy. Therein is the heretics’ 
discipline to be commended, my sister, that they 
train up their youth in strong morality, and choke 
up every inlet to youthful folly.” 

“ It is but a cleansing of the outside of the cup,” 
answered her friend, “ a whitening of the sepulchre ; 
but he shall see Catherine, since you, sister, judge it 
safe and meet. — Follow us, youth,” she added, and 
led the way from the apartment with her friend. 
These were the only words which the matron had 
addressed to Eoland Graeme, who obeyed them in 
silence. As they paced through several winding 
passages and waste apartments with a very slow 


128 


THE ABBOT. 


step, the young page had leisure to make some re^ 
flections on his situation, — reflections of a nature 
which his ardent temper considered as specially dis- 
agreeable. It seemed he had now got two mistresses, 
or tutoresses, instead of one, both elderly women, 
and both, it would seem, in league to direct his 
motions according to their own pleasure, and for the 
accomplishment of plans to which he was no party. 
This, he thought, was too much ; arguing, reasonably 
enough, that -whatever right his grandmother and 
benefactress had to guide his motions, she was 
neither entitled to transfer her authority, or to 
divide it with another, who seemed to assume, with- 
out ceremony, the same tone of absolute command 
over him. 

“ But it shall not long continue thus,” thought 
Eoland ; I will not be all my life the slave of a 
woman’s whistle, to go when she bids, and come 
when she calls. No, by Saint Andrew ! the hand 
that can hold the lance is above the control of the 
distaff. I will leave them the slipp’d collar in their 
hands on the first opportunity, and let them execute 
their own devices by their own proper force. It 
may save them both from peril, for I guess what 
they meditate is not likely to prove either safe or 
easy — the Earl of Murray and his heresy are too 
well rooted to be grubbed up by two old women.’’ 

As he thus resolved, they entered a low room, in 
which a third female was seated. This apartment 
was the first he had observed in the mansion which 
was furnished with movable seats, and with a 
wooden table, over which was laid a piece of tapes- 
try. A carpet was spread on the floor, there was a 
grate in the chimney, and, in brief, the apartment 
had the air of being habitable and inhabited. 


THE ABBOT. 


129 


But Boland’s eyes found better employment than 
to make observations on the accommodations of the 
chamber ; for this second female inhabitant of the 
mansion seemed something very different from any 
thing he had yet seen there. At his first entry, 
she had greeted with a silent and low obeisance the 
two aged matrons, then glancing her eyes towards 
Boland, she adjusted a veil which hung back over 
her shoulders, so as to bring it over her face ; an 
operation which she performed with much modesty, 
but without either affected haste or embarrassed 
timidity. 

During this manoeuvre, Boland had time to ob- 
serve that the face was that of a girl apparently not 
much past sixteen, and that the eyes were at once 
soft and brilliant. To these very favourable obser- 
vations was added the certainty, that the fair object 
to whom they referred possessed an excellent shape, 
bordering perhaps on eTnhoThjpointy and therefore 
rather that of a Hebe than of a Sylph, but beauti- 
fully formed, and shown to great advantage by the 
close jacket and petticoat which she wore after a 
foreign fashion, the last not quite long enough abso- 
lutely to conceal a very pretty foot, which rested on 
a bar of the table at which she sate ; her round 
arms and taper fingers very busily employed in re- 
pairing the piece of tapestry which was spread orfit, 
which exhibited several deplorable fissures, enough 
to demand the utmost skill of the most expert 
seamstress. 

It is to be remarked, that it was by stolen glances 
that Boland Graeme contrived to ascertain these in- 
teresting particulars ; and he thought he could once 
or twice, notwithstanding the texture of the veil, 
detect the damsel in the act of taking similar cog- 

VOL. I. — 9 


130 


THE ABBOT. 


nizance of his own person. The matrons in the 
meanwhile continued their separate conversation, 
eyeing from time to time the young people, in a 
manner which left Eoland in no doubt that they 
were the subject of their conversation. At length 
he distinctly heard Magdalen Graeme say these 
words — Nay, my sister, we must give them oppor- 
tunity to speak together, and to become acquainted ; 
they must be personally known to each other, or 
how shall they be able to execute what they are in- 
trusted with ? 

It seemed as if the matron, not fully satisfied 
with her friend’s reasoning, continued to offer some 
objections ; but they were borne down by her more 
dictatorial friend. 

‘"It must be so,” she said, “my dear sister; let us 
therefore go forth on the balcony, to finish our con- 
versation. — And do you,” she added, addressing 
Eoland and the girl, “ become acquainted with each 
other.” 

With this she stepped up to the young woman, 
and raising her veil, discovered features which, 
whatever might be their ordinary complexion, were 
now covered with a universal blush. 

Licitum sit,” said Magdalen, looking at the 
other matron. 

^ Vix licitum” replied the other, with reluctant 
and hesitating acquiescence ; and again adjusting 
the veil of the blushing girl, she dropped it so as to 
shade, though not to conceal, her countenance, and 
whispered to her, in a tone loud enough for the 
page to hear, “ Eemember, Catherine, who thou art, 
and for what destined.” 

The matron then retreated with Magdalen Graeme 
through one of the casements of the apartment, that 


THE ABBOT. 


13 ' 


opened on a large broad balcony, which, with its 
ponderous balustrade, had once run along the whole 
south front of the building which faced the brook, 
and formed a pleasant and commodious walk in the 
open air. It was now in some places deprived of 
the balustrade, in others broken and narrowed ; but, 
ruinous as it was, could still be used as a pleasant 
promenade. Here then walked the two ancient 
dames, busied in their private conversation ; yet not 
so much so, but that Eoland could observe the 
matrons, as their thin forms darkened the casement 
in passing or repassing before it, dart a glance into 
the apartment, to see how matters were going on 
there 


CHAPTEE XI. 


Life hath its May, and it is mirthful then : 

The woods are vocal, and the flowers all odour ; 

Its very blast has mirth in’t — and the maidens. 

The while they don their cloaks to skreen their kirtles. 
Laugh at the rain that wets them. 

Old Play. 

Catherine was at the happy age of innocence and 
buoyancy of spirit, when, after the first moment of 
embarrassment was over, a situation of awkward- 
ness like that in which she was suddenly left to 
make acquaintance with a handsome youth, not even 
known to her by name, struck her, in spite of her- 
self, in a ludicrous point of view. She bent her 
beautiful eyes upon the work with which she was 
busied, and with infinite gravity sate out the two 
first turns of the matrons upon the balcony; but 
then glancing her deep blue eye a little towards 
Eoland, and observing the embarrassment under 
which he laboured, now shifting on his chair, and 
now dangling his cap, the whole man evincing that 
he was perfectly at a loss how to open the conver- 
sation, she could keep her composure no longer, but 
after a vain struggle broke out into a sincere, though 
a very involuntary, fit of laughing, so richly accom- 
panied by the laughter of her merry eyes, which 
actually glanced through the tears which the effort 
filled them with, and by the waving of her rich 
tresses, that the goddess of smiles herself never 
looked more lovely than Catherine at that moment. 







THE ABBOT. 


133 


A court page would not have left her long alone in 
her mirth ; but Eoland was country-bred, and, be- 
sides, having some jealousy, as well as bashfulness, 
he took it into his head that he was himself the 
object of her inextinguishable laughter. His en- 
deavours to sympathize with Catherine, therefore, 
could carry him no farther than a forced giggle, 
which had more of displeasure than of mirth in it, 
and which so much enhanced that of the girl, that 
it seemed to render it impossible for her ever to 
bring her laughter to an end, with whatever anxious 
pains she laboured to do so. For every one has felt 
that when a paroxysm of laughter has seized him, 
at a misbecoming time and place, the efforts which 
he makes to suppress it, nay, the very sense of the 
impropriety of giving way to it, tend only to aug- 
ment and prolong the irresistible impulse. 

It was undoubtedly lucky for Catherine, as well 
as for Eoland, that the latter did not share in the 
excessive mirth of the former. For seated as she 
was, with her back to the casement, Catherine could 
easily escape the observation of the two matrons 
during the course of their promenade; whereas 
Grseme was so placed, with his side to the window, 
that his mirth, had he shared that of his companion, 
would have been instantly visible, and could not 
have failed to give offence to the personages in 
question. He sate, however, with some impatience, 
until Catherine had exhausted either her power or 
her desire of laughing, and was returning with good 
grace to the exercise of her needle, and then he ob- 
served with some dryness, that “there seemed no 
great occasion to recommend to them to improve 
their acquaintance, as it seemed that they were al- 
ready tolerably familiar.” 


134 


THE ABBOT. 


Catherine had an extreme desire to set off upon a 
fresh score, but she repressed it strongly, and fixing 
her eyes on her work, replied by asking his pardon, 
and promising to avoid future offence. 

Koland had sense enough to feel, that an air of 
offended dignity was very much misplaced, and that 
it was with a very different bearing he ought to 
meet the deep blue eyes which had borne such a 
hearty burden in the laughing scene. He tried, 
therefore, to extricate himself as well as he could 
from his blunder, by assuming a tone of correspond- 
ing gaiety, and requesting to know of the nymph, 
“ how it was her pleasure that they should proceed 
in improving the acquaintance which had com- 
menced so merrily.’* 

“ That,” she said, “ you must yourself discover ; 
perhaps I have gone a step too far in opening our 
interview.” 

Suppose,” said Eoland Graeme, “ we should begin 
as in a tale-book, by asking each other’s names and 
histories.” 

“ It is right well imagined,” said Catherine, “ and 
shows an argute judgment. Do you begin, and I 
will listen, and only put in a question or two at the 
dark parts of the story. Come, unfold then your 
name and history, my new acquaintance.” 

“ I am called Eoland Graeme, and that tall old 
woman is my grandmother.” 

“ And your tutoress ? — Good. Who are your 
parents ? ” 

They are both dead,” replied Eoland. 

“ Ay, but who were they ? You had parents, 1 
presume ? ” 

“ I suppose so,” said Eoland, “ but I have never 
been able to learn much of their history. My father 


THE ABBOT. 


135 


was a Scottish knight, who died gallantly in his stir- 
rups — my mother was a Graeme of Heathergill, in 
the Debateable Land — most of her family were 
killed when the Debateable country was burned by 
the Lord Maxwell and Herries of Caerlaverock.” 

“ Is it long ago ? ” said the damsel. 

Before I was born,” answered the page. 

“That must be a great while since,” said she, 
shaking her head gravely; “look you, I cannot 
weep for them.” 

“ It needs not,” said the youth, “ they fell with 
honour.” 

“ So much for your lineage, fair sir,” replied his 
companion, “ of whom I like the living specimen ” 
(a glance at the casement) “ far less than those that 
are dead. Your much honoured grandmother looks 
as if she could make one weep in sad earnest. And 
now, fair sir, for your own person — if you tell not 
the tale faster, it will be cut short in the middle ; 
Mother Bridget pauses longer and longer every 
time she passes the window, and with her there is 
as little mirth as in the grave of your ancestors.” 

“ My tale is soon told — I was introduced into 
the Castle of Avenel to be page to the lady of the 
mansion.” 

“ She is a strict Huguenot, is she not ? ” said the 
maiden. 

“As strict as Calvin himself. But my grand- 
mother can play the puritan when it suits her 
purpose, and she had some plan of her own for 
quartering me in the castle — it would have 
failed, however, after we had remained several 
weeks at the hamlet, but for an unexpected master 
of ceremonies ” 

“ And who was that ? ” said the girl. 


136 


THE ABBOT. 


“A large black dog, Wolf by name, who brought 
me into tjie castle one day in his mouth, like a hurt 
wild -duck, and presented me to the lady.” 

“A most respectable introduction, truly,” said 
Catherine ; “ and what might you learn at this 
same castle ? I love dearly to know what my ac- 
quaintances can do at need.” 

“ To fly a hawk, hollow to a hound, back a horse, 
and wield lance, bow, and brand.” » 

“And to boast of all this when you have learned 
it,” said Catherine, “which, in France at least, is 
the surest accomplishment of a page. But proceed, 
fair sir ; how came your Huguenot lord and your no 
less Huguenot lady to receive and keep in the family 
so perilous a person as a Catholic page ? ” 

“ Because they knew not that part of my history, 
which from infancy I had been taught to keep secret 
— and because my grand-dame’s former zealous at- 
tendance on their heretic chaplain, had laid all this 
suspicion to sleep, most fait Callipolis,” said the 
page ; and in so saying, he edged his chair towards 
the seat of the fair querist. 

“ Nay, but keep your distance, most gallant sir,” 
answered the blue-eyed maiden, “ for, unless I 
greatly mistake, these reverend ladies will soon 
interrupt our amicable conference, if the acquaint- 
ance they recommend shall seem to proceed beyond 
a certain point — so, fair sir, be pleased to abide by 
your station, and reply to my questions. — By what 
achievements did you prove the qualities of a page, 
which you had thus happily acquired ? ” 

Eoland, who began to enter into the tone and 
spirit of the damsel’s conversation, replied to her 
with becoming spirit. 

“ In no feat, fair gentlewoman, was I found 


THE ABBOT. 


137 


inexpert, wherein there was mischief implied. I 
shot swans, hunted cats, frightened serving- women, 
chased the deer, and robbed the orchard. I say 
nothing of tormenting the chaplain in various ways, 
for that was my duty as a good Catholic.” 

“ Now, as I am a gentlewoman,” said Catherine, 
“ I think these heretics have done Catholic penance 
in entertaining so all-accomplished a serving-man ! 
And what, fair sir, might have been the unhappy 
event which deprived them of an inmate altogether 
so estimable ? ” 

“ Truly, fair gentlewoman,” answered the youth, 
“ your real proverb says that the longest lane will 
have a turning, and mine was more — it was, in fine, 
a turning off.” 

“ Good ! ” said the merry young maiden, “ it is 
an apt play on the word. — And what occasion was 
taken for so important a catastrophe ? — Nay, start 
not for my learning, I do know the schools — in 
plain phrase, why were you sent from service ? ” 

The page shrugged his shoulders while he replied, 
— ''A short tale is soon told — and a short horse 
soon curried. I made the falconer’s boy taste of my 
switch — the falconer threatened to make me brook 
his cudgel — he is a kindly clown as well as a stout, 
and I would rather have been cudgelled by him than 
any man in Christendom to choose — but I knew not 
his qualities at that time — so I threatened to make 
him brook the stab, and my Lady made me brook 
the 'Begone; ’ so adieu to the page’s office and the 
fair Castle of Avenel. — I had not travelled far be- 
fore I met my venerable parent — And so tell your 
tale, fair gentlewoman, for mine is done.” 

“ A happy grandmother,” said the maiden, “ who 
had the luck to find the stray page just when his 


THE ABBOT. 


138 

mistress had slipped his leash, and a most lucky 
page that has jumped at once from a page to an 
old lady’s gentleman-usher ! ” 

“ All this is nothing of your history,” answered 
Koland Graeme, who began to be much interested 
in the congenial vivacity of this facetious young 
gentlewoman, — “ tale for tale is fellow-traveller’s 
justice.” 

“ Wait till we are fellow-travellers, then,” replied 
Catherine. 

“ Nay, you escape me not so,” said the page ; if 
you deal not justly by me, I will call out to Dame 
Bridget, or whatever your dame be called, and pro- 
claim you for a cheat.” 

“ You shall not need,” answered the maiden — 
“ my history is the counterpart of your own ; the 
same words might almost serve, change but dress 
and name. I am called Catherine Seyton, and I 
also am an orphan.” 

“ Have your parents been long dead ? ” 

That is the only question,” said she, throwing 
down her fine eyes with a sudden expression of 
sorrow, — that is the only question I cannot 
laugh at.” 

“ And Dame Bridget is your grandmother ? ” 

The sudden cloud passed away like that which 
crosses for an instant the summer sun, and she an- 
swered, with her usual lively expression, Worse 
by twenty degrees — Dame Bridget is my maiden 
aunt.” 

“ Over gods forebode ! ” said Eoland — “ Alas ! 
that you have such a tale to tell ! And what horror 
comes next ? ” 

“ Your own history, exactly. I was taken upon 
trial for service ” 


THE ABBOT. 


139 


"And turned off for pinching the duenna, or 
affronting my lady’s waiting- woman ? ” 

"Nay, our history varies there,” said the damsel 

— “ Our mistress broke up house, or had her house 
broke up, which is the same thing, and I am a free 
woman of the forest.” 

" And I am as glad of it as if any one had lined 
my doublet with cloth of gold,” said the youth. 

" I thank you for your mirth,” said she, " but the 
matter is not likely to concern you.” 

" Nay, but go on,” said the page, " for you will 
be presently interrupted ; the two good dames have 
been soaring yonder on the balcony, like two old 
hooded crows, and their croak grows hoarser as 
night comes on ; they will wing to roost presently. 

— This mistress of yours, fair gentlewoman, who 
was she, in God’s name ? ” 

" 0, she has a fair name in the world,” replied 
Catherine Seyton. " Few ladies kept a fairer house, 
or held more gentlewomen in her household ; my 
aunt Bridget was one of her housekeepers. We 
never saw our mistress’s blessed face, to be sure, but 
we heard enough of her ; were up early and down 
late, and were kept to long prayers and light food.” 

" Out upon the penurious old beldam ! ” said the 
page. 

“For Heaven’s sake, blaspheme not!” said the 
girl, with an expression of fear. — " God pardon us 
both ! I meant no harm. I speak of our blessed 
Saint Catherine of Sienna ! — May God forgive me 
that I spoke so lightly, and made you do a great 
sin and a great blasphemy ! This was her nunnery, 
in which there were twelve nuns and an abbess. 
My aunt was the abbess, till the heretics turned all 
adrift." 


140 


THE ABBOT. 


“And where are your companions?” asked the 
youth. 

“ With the last year’s snow,” answered the maiden ; 
“ east, north, south, and west — some to France, 
some to Flanders, some, I fear, into the world and 
its pleasures. We have got permission to remain, 
or rather our remaining has been connived at, for 
my aunt has great relations among the Kerrs, and 
they have threatened a death-feud if any one touches 
us ; and bow and spear are the best warrants in these 
times.” 

“ Nay, then, you sit under a sure shadow,” said 
the youth ; “ and I suppose you wept yourself blind 
when Saint Catherine broke up housekeeping be- 
fore you had taken arles ^ in her service ? ” 

“ Hush ! for Heaven’s sake,” said the damsel, 
crossing herself, “ no more of that ! But I have not 
quite cried my eyes out,” said she, turning them 
upon him, and instantly again bending them upon 
her work. It was one of those glances which would 
require the threefold plate of brass around the heart, 
more than it is needed by the mariners, to whom 
Horace recommends it. Our youthful page had no 
defence whatever to offer. 

“ What say you, Catherine,” he said, “ if we two, 
thus strangely turned out of service at the same 
time, should give our two most venerable duennas 
the torch to hold, while we walk a merry mea- 
sure with each other over the floor of this weary 
world ? ” 

“ A goodly proposal, truly,” said Catherine, “ and 
worthy the madcap brain of a discarded page ! — 
And what shifts does your worship propose we 
should live by ? — by singing ballads, cutting purses, 
* Anglic€ — Earnest-monej 


THE ABBOT. 


141 


or swaggering on tlie highway ? for there, I think, 
you would find your most productive exchequer.” 

“ Choose, you proud peat ! ” said the page, draw- 
ing off in huge disdain at the calm and unembar- 
rassed ridicule with which his wild proposal was 
received. And as he spoke the words, the casement 
was again darkened by the forms of the matrons — 
it opened, and admitted Magdalen Graeme and the 
Mother Abbess, so we must now style her, into the 
apartment. 


CHAPTEE XIL 


Nay, hear me, brother — I am. elder, wiser, 

And holier than thou. And age, and wisdom, 

And holiness, have peremptory claims, 

And will be listen’d to. 

Old Play. 

When the matrons re-entered, and put an end to 
the conversation which we have detailed in the last 
chapter, Dame Magdalen Graeme thus addressed 
her grandson and his pretty companion: “Have 
you spoke together, my children ? — Have you be- 
come known to each other as fellow-travellers on 
the same dark and dubious road, whom chance hath 
brought together, and who study to learn the tem- 
pers and dispositions of those by whom their perils 
are to be shared ? ” 

It was seldom the light-hearted Catherine could 
suppress a jest, so that she often spoke when she 
would have acted more wisely in holding her peace. 

“ Your grandson admires the journey which you 
propose so very greatly, that he was even now pre- 
paring for setting out upon it instantly.” 

“This is to be too forward, Eoland,” said the 
dame, addressing him, “ as yesterday you were over 
slack — the just mean lies in obedience, which both 
waits for the signal to start, and obeys it when 
given. — But once again, my children, have you so 
perused each other’s countenances, that when you 
meet, in whatever disguise the times may impose 


THE ABBOT. 


H3 

upon you, you may recognise each in the other the 
secret agent of the mighty work in which you are 
to be leagued ? — Look at each other, know each line 
and lineament of each other’s countenance. Learn 
to distinguish by the step, by the sound of the voice, 
by the motion of the hand, by the glance of the 
eye, the partner whom Heaven hath sent to aid in 
working its will. — Will thou know that maiden, 
whensoever or wheresoever you shall again meet 
her, my Eoland Graeme ? ” 

As readily as truly did Eoland answer in the 
affirmative. “And thou, my daughter, wilt thou 
again remember the features of this youth ? ” 

“ Truly, mother,” replied Catherine Seyton, “ T 
have not seen so many men of late, that I should 
immediately forget your grandson, though I mark 
not much about him that is deserving of special 
remembrance.” 

“ Join hands, then, my children,” said Magdalen 
Graeme ; but, in saying so, was interrupted by her 
companion, whose conventual prejudices had been 
gradually giving her more and more uneasiness, and 
who could remain acquiescent no longer. 

“Nay, my good sister, you forget,” said she to 
Magdalen, “Catherine is the betrothed bride of 
Heaven — these intimacies cannot be.” 

“It is in the cause of Heaven that I command 
them to embrace,” said Magdalen, with the full 
force of her powerful voice ; “ the end, sister, sanc- 
tifies the means we must use.” 

“ They call me Lady Abbess, or Mother at the 
least who address me,” said Dame Bridget, draw- 
ing herself up, as if offended at her friend s author- 
itative manner — “ the Lady of Heathergill forgets 
that she speaks to the Abbess of Saint Catherine. 


144 


THE ABBOT. 


“ When I was what you call me,” said Magdalen, 
“ you indeed were the Abbess of Saint Catherine ; 
but both names are now gone, with all the rank that 
the world and that the church gave to them ; and 
we are now, to the eye of human judgment, two 
poor, despised, oppressed women, dragging our dis- 
honoured old age to a humble grave. But what 
are we in the eye of Heaven ? — Ministers sent 
forth to work His will, — in whose weakness the 
strength of the church shall be manifested — before 
whom shall be humbled the wisdom of Murray, and 
the dark strength of Morton. — And to such wouldst 
thou apply the narrow rules of thy cloistered seclu- 
sion ? — or, hast thou forgotten the order which I 
showed thee from thy Superior, subjecting thee to 
me in these matters ? ” 

“ On thy head, then, be the scandal and the sin,** 
said the Abbess, sullenly. 

“On mine be they both,” said Magdalen. “I 
say, embrace each other, my children.” 

But Catherine, aware, perhaps, how the dispute 
was likely to terminate, had escaped from the apart- 
ment, and so disappointed the grandson, at least as 
much as the old matron. 

“ She is gone,” said the Abbess, “ to provide 
some little refreshment. But it will have little 
savour to those who dwell in the world ; for I, at 
least, cannot dispense with the rules to which I am 
vowed, because it is the will of wicked men to 
break down the sanctuary in which they wont to 
be observed.” 

“It is well, my sister,** replied Magdalen, “to 
pay each even the smallest tithes of mint and cum- 
min which the church demands, and I blame not 
thy scrupulous observance of the rules of thine 


THE ABBOT. 


145 


order. But they were established by the church, and 
for the church’s benefit ; and reason it is that they 
should give way when the salvation of the church 
herself is at stake.” 

The Abbess made no reply. 

One more acquainted with human nature than 
the inexperienced page, might have found amuse- 
ment in comparing the different kinds of fanaticism 
which these two females exhibited. The Abbess 
— timid, narrow-minded, and discontented, clung 
to ancient usages and pretensions which were ended 
by the Keformation, and was in adversity, as she 
had been in prosperity, scrupulous, weak-spirited, 
and bigoted ; while the fiery and more lofty spirit 
of her companion suggested a wider field of effort, 
and would not be limited by ordinary rules in the 
extraordinary schemes which were suggested by 
her bold and irregular imagination. But Eoland 
Graeme, instead of tracing these peculiarities of 
character in the two old dames, only waited with 
great anxiety for the return of Catherine, expect- 
ing probably that the proposal of the fraternal em- 
brace would be renewed, as his grandmother seemed 
disposed to carry matters with a high hand. 

His expectations, or hopes, if we may call them 
so, were, however, disappointed ; for, when Cathe- 
rine re-entered on the summons of the Abbess, and 
placed on the table an earthern pitcher of water, 
and four wooden platters, with cups of the same 
materials, the Dame of Heathergill, satisfied with 
the arbitrary mode in which she had borne down 
the opposition of the Abbess, pursued her victory no 
farther — a moderation for which her grandson, in 
his heart, returned her but slender thanks. 

In the meanwhile, Catherine continued to place 

VOL. I. — 10 


146 


THE ABBOT. 


upon the table the slender preparations for the meal 
of a recluse, which consisted almost entirely of cole- 
wort, boiled, and served up in a wooden platter, 
having no better seasoning than a little salt, and no 
better accompaniment than some coarse barley-bread 
in very moderate quantity. The water-pitcher, al- 
ready mentioned, furnished the only beverage. After 
a Latin grace, delivered by the Abbess, the guests 
sat down to their spare entertainment. The simpli- 
city of the fare appeared to produce no distaste in 
the females, who ate of it moderately, but with the 
usual appearance of appetite. But Boland Graeme 
had been used to better cheer. Sir Halbert Glendin- 
ning, who affected even an unusual degree of noble- 
ness in his housekeeping, maintained it in a style 
of genial hospitality, which rivalled that of the 
Northern Barons of England. He might think, per- 
haps, that by doing so, he acted yet more completely 
the part for which he was horn — that of a great 
Baron and a leader. Two bullocks, and six sheep, 
weekly, were the allowance when the Baron was at 
home, and the number was not greatly diminished 
during his absence. A boll of malt was weekly 
brewed into ale, which was used by the household 
at discretion. Bread was baked in proportion for 
the consumption of his domestics and retainers ; and 
in this scene of plenty had Boland Graeme now lived 
for several years. It formed a bad introduction to 
lukewarm greens and spring water; and probably 
his countenance indicated some sense of the differ- 
ence, for the Abbess observed, “ It would seem, my 
son, that the tables of the heretic Baron, whom you 
have so long followed, are more daintily furnished 
than those of the suffering daughters of the church ; 
and yet, not upon the most solemn nights of festival, 


THE ABBOT. 


147 


when the nuns were permitted to eat their portion 
at mine own table, did I consider the cates which 
were then served up as half so delicious as these 
vegetables and this water, on which I prefer to feed, 
rather than do aught which may derogate from the 
strictness of my vow. It shall never be said that 
the mistress of this house made it a house of feasting, 
when days of darkness and of affliction were hanging 
over the Holy Church, of which I am an unworthy 
member.” 

“ Well hast thou said, my sister,” replied Magdalen 
Graeme ; “but now it is not only time to suffer in the 
good cause, but to act in it. And since our pilgrim’s 
meal is finished, let us go apart to prepare for our 
journey of to-morrow, and to advise on the manner 
in which these children shall be employed, and what 
measures we can adopt to supply their thoughtless- 
ness and lack of discretion.” 

Notwithstanding his indifferent cheer, the heart of 
Eoland Graeme bounded high at this proposal, which 
he doubted not would lead to another Ute-h-tete be- 
twixt him and the pretty novice. But he was mis- 
taken. Catherine, it would seem, had no mind so 
far to indulge him ; for, moved either by delicacy or 
caprice, or some of those indescribable shades be- 
twixt the one and the other, with which women love 
to teaze, and at the same time to captivate, the ruder 
sex, she reminded the Abbess that it was necessary 
she should retire for an hour before vespers ; and, 
receiving the ready and approving nod of her Super- 
ior, she arose to withdraw. But, before leaving the 
apartment, she made obeisance to the matrons, 
bending herself till her hands touched her knees, 
and then made a lesser reverence to Eoland, which 
consisted in a slight bend of the body and gentle 


148 


THE AEEOT. 


depression of the head. This she performed very de- 
murely ; but the party on whom the salutation was 
conferred, thought he could discern in her manner 
an arch and mischievous exultation over his secret 
disappointment. — “ The devil take the saucy girl,” 
he thought in his heart, though the presence of the 
Abbess should have repressed all such profane im- 
aginations, — ‘‘ she is as hard-hearted as the laugh- 
ing hyaena that the story-books tell of — she has 
a mind that I shall not forget her this night at 
least.” 

The matrons now retired also, giving the page to 
understand that he was on no account to stir from 
the convent, or to show himself at the windows, the 
Abbess assigning as a reason, the readiness with 
which the rude heretics caught at every occasion of 
scandalizing the religious orders. 

“ This is worse than the rigour of Mr. Henry 
Warden himself,” said the page, when he was left 
alone ; for, to do him justice, however strict in re- 
quiring the most rigid attention during the time of 
his homilies, he left us to the freedom of our own 
wills afterwards — ay, and would take a share in 
our pastimes, too, if he thought them entirely inno- 
cent. But these old women are utterly wrapt up 
in gloom, mystery, and self-denial. — Well, then, if 
I must neither stir out of the gate nor look out at 
window, I will at least see what the inside of the 
house contains that may help to pass away one’s 
time — peradventure, I may light on that blue-eyed 
laugher in some corner or other.” 

Going, therefore, out of the chamber by the en- 
trance opposite to that through which the two ma- 
trons had departed, (for it may be readily supposed 
that he had no desire to intrude on their privacy,) 


THE ABBOT. 


149 


he wandered from one chamber to another, through 
the deserted edifice, seeking, with boyish eagerness, 
some source of interest or amusement. Here he 
passed through a long gallery, opening on either 
hand into the little cells of the nuns, all deserted, 
and deprived of the few trifling articles of furniture 
which the rules of the order admitted. 

“ The birds are flown,” thought the page ; “ but 
whether they will find themselves worse off in the 
open air than in these damp narrow cages, I leave 
my Lady Abbess and my venerable relative to settle 
betwixt them. I think the wild young lark whom 
they have left behind them, would like best to sing 
under God’s free sky.” 

A winding stair, strait and narrow, as if to re- 
mind the nuns of their duties of fast and maceration, 
led down to a lower suite of apartments, which oc- 
cupied the ground story of the house. These rooms 
were even more ruinous than those which he had 
left; for, having encountered the first fury of the 
assailants by whom the nunnery had been wasted, 
the windows had been dashed in, the doors broken 
down, and even the partitions betwixt the apart- 
ments, in some places, destroyed. As he thus stalked 
from desolation to desolation, and began to think 
of returning from so uninteresting a research to the 
chamber which he had left, he was surprised to hear 
the low of a cow very close to him. The sound was 
so unexpected at the time and place, that Holand 
Graeme started as if it had been the voice of a lion, 
and laid his hand on his dagger, while at the same 
moment the light and lovely form of Catherine Sey- 
ton presented itself at the door of the apartment 
from which the sound had issued. 

“ Good even to you, valiant champion ! said she ; 


150 


THE ABBOT. 


“since the days of Guy of Warwick, never was one 
more worthy to encounter a dun cow.” 

“ Cow ? ” said Eoland Grseme, “ by my faith, I 
thought it had been the devil that roared so near 
me. Who ever heard of a convent containing a 
cow-house ? ” 

“ Cow and calf may come hither now,” answered 
Catherine, “for we have no means to keep out 
either. But T advise you, kind sir, to return to the 
place from whence you came.” 

“ Kot till I see your charge, fair sister,” answered 
Eoland, and made his way into the apartment, in 
spite of the half serious half laughing remonstrances 
of the girl. 

The poor solitary cow, now the only severe re- 
cluse within the nunnery, was quartered in a spa- 
cious chamber, which had once been the refectory 
of the convent. The roof was graced with groined 
arches, and the wall with niches, from which the 
images had been pulled down. These remnants of 
architectural ornaments were strangely contrasted 
with the rude crib constructed for the cow in one 
corner of the apartment, and the stack of fodder 
which was piled beside it for her food.^ 

“ By my faith,” said the page, “ Crombie is more 
lordly lodged than any one here ! ” 

“ You had best remain with her,” said Catherine, 
“ and supply by your filial attentions the offspring 
she has had the ill luck to lose.” 

“ I will remain, at least, to help you to prepare 
her night’s lair, pretty Catherine,” said Eoland, 
seizing upon a pitchfork. 

“ By no means,” said Catherine ; “ for, besides 
that you know not in the least how to do her that 
1 Note IV. — Nunnery of St. Bridget. 


THE ABBOT. 


iSi 

service, you will bring a chiding my way, and I get 
enough of that in the regular course of things.” 

“ What ! for accepting my assistance ? ” said the 
page, — “for accepting my assistance, who am to be 
your confederate in some deep matter of import? 
That were altogether unreasonable — and, now I 
think on it, tell me if you can, what is this mighty 
emprise to which I am destined ? ” 

“ Eobbing a bird’s nest, I should suppose,” said 
Catherine, “considering the champion whom they 
have selected.’* 

“ By my faith,” said the youth, “ and he that has 
taken a falcon’s nest in the Scaurs of Polmoodie, 
has done something to brag of, my fair sister. — But 
that is all over now — a murrain on the nest, and 
the eyasses and their food, washed or unwashed, 
for it was all anon of cramming these worthless kites 
that I was sent upon my present travels. Save that 
I have met with you, pretty sister, I could eat my 
dagger-hilt for vexation at my own folly. But, as 
we are to be fellow travellers ” 

“ Fellow-labourers ! not fellow-travellers ! ” an- 
swered the girl ; “ for to your comfort be it known, 
that the Lady Abbess and I set out earlier than 
you and your respected relative to-morrow, and that 
I partly endure your company at present, because 
it may be long ere we meet again.” 

“ By Saint Andrew, but it shall not, though,” 
answered Koland ; “ I will not hunt at all unless 
we are to hunt in couples.” 

“ I suspect, in that and in other points, we must 
do as we are bid,” replied the young lady. — “ But 
hark ! I hear my aunt’s voice.” 

The old lady entered in good earnest, and darted 
a severe glance at her niece, while Eoland had the 


152 


THE ABBOT. 


ready wit to busy himself about the halter of the 
cow. 

“ The young gentleman,” said Catherine, gravely, 
“is helping me to tie the cow up faster to her 
stake, for I find that last night when she put her 
head out of window and lowed, she alarmed the 
whole village ; and we shall be suspected of sorcery 
among the heretics, if they do not discover the cause 
of the apparition, or lose our cow if they do.” 

“ Eelieve yourself of that fear,” said the Abbess, 
somewhat ironically ; “ the person to whom she is 
now sold, comes for the animal presently. ” 

“Good-night, then, my poor companion,” said 
Catherine, patting the animal’s shoulders ; “ I hope 
thou hast fallen into kind hands, for my happiest 
hours of late have been spent in tending thee — I 
would I had been born to no better task ! ” 

“ Now, out upon thee, mean-spirited wench ! ” 
said the Abbess ; “ is that a speech worthy of the 
name of Seyton, or of the mouth of a sister of this 
house, treading the path of election — and to be spo- 
ken before a stranger youth, too ! — Go to my ora- 
tory, minion — there read your Hours till I come 
thither, when I will read you such a lecture as shall 
make you prize the blessings which you possess.” 

Catherine was about to withdraw in silence, cast- 
ing a half sorrowful half comic glance at Eoland 
Grseme, which seemed to say — You see to what 
your untimely visit has exposed me,” when, suddenly 
changing her mind, she came forward to the page, 
and extended her hand as she bid him good -even- 
ing. Their palms had pressed each other ere the 
astonished matron could interfere, and Catherine 
had time to say — “ Forgive me, mother ; it is long 
since we have seen a face that looked with kind- 


THE ABBOT. 


153 


ness on us. Since these disorders have broken up 
our peaceful retreat, all has been gloom and ma- 
lignity. I bid this youth kindly farewell, because 
he has come hither in kindness, and because the 
odds are great, that we may never again meet in 
this world. I guess better than he, that the schemes 
on which you are rushing are too mighty for your 
management, and that you are now setting the stone 
a-rolling, which must surely crush you in its de- 
scent. I bid farewell,” she added, “ to my fellow- 
victim ! ” 

This was spoken with a tone of deep and serious 
feeling, altogether different from the usual levity 
of Catherine’s manner, and plainly showed, that be- 
neath the giddiness of extreme youth and total 
inexperience, there lurked in her bosom a deeper 
power of sense and feeling, than her conduct had 
hitherto expressed. 

The Abbess remained a moment silent after she 
had left the room. The proposed rebuke died on 
her tongue, and she appeared struck with the deep 
and foreboding tone in which her niece had spoken 
her good-even. She led the way in silence to the 
apartment which they had formerly occupied, and 
where there was prepared a small refection, as the 
Abbess termed it, consisting of •milk and barley- 
bread. Magdalen Graeme, summoned to take share 
in this collation, appeared from an adjoining apart- 
ment, hut Catherine was seen no more. There was 
little said during the hasty meal, and after it was 
finished, Koland Graeme was dismissed to the near- 
est cell, where some preparations had been made 
for his repose. 

The strange circumstances in which he found him- 
self, had their usual effect in preventing slumber 


154 


THE ABBOT. 


from hastily descending on him, and he could dis- 
tinctly hear, by a low but earnest murmuring in 
the apartment which he had left, that the ma- 
trons continued in deep consultation to a late hour. 
As they separated, he heard the Abbess distinctly 
express herself thus : “ In a word, my sister, I ven- 
erate your character and the authority with which 
my Superiors have invested you ; yet it seems to me, 
that, ere entering on this perilous course, we should 
consult some of the Fathers of the Church.” 

“ And how and where are we to find a faithful 
Bishop or Abbot at whom to ask counsel? The 
faithful Eustatius is no more — he is withdrawn 
from a world of evil, and from the tyranny of here- 
tics. May Heaven and Our Lady assoilzie him of 
his sins, and abridge the penance of his mortal in- 
firmities ! — Where shall we find another, with 
whom to take counsel ? ” 

“ Heaven will provide for the Church,” said the 
Abbess ; “ and the faithful fathers who yet are suf- 
fered to remain in the house of Kennaquhair, will 
proceed to elect an Abbot. They will not suffer 
the staff to fall down, or the mitre to be unfilled, 
for the threats of heresy.” 

“ That will I learn to-morrow,” said Magdalen 
Graeme ; “ yet who now takes the office of an hour, 
save to partake with the spoilers in their work of 
plunder ? — to-morrow will tell us if one of the thou- 
sand saints who are sprung from the House of Saint 
Mary’s continues to look down on it in its misery. 
— Farewell, my sister, we meet at Edinburgh.” 

“ Benedicite ! ” answered the Abbess, and they 
parted. 

“ To Kennaquhair and to Edinburgh we bend our 
way,” thought Koland Graeme. “ That information 


THE ABBOT. 


155 


have I purchased by a sleepless hour — it suits well 
with my purpose. At Kennaquhair I shall see 
Father Ambrose; — at Edinburgh I shall find the 
means of shaping my own course through this bus- 
tling world, without burdening my affectionate 
relation — at Edinburgh, too, I shall see again the 
witching novice, with her blue eyes and her provok- 
ing smile.” — He fell asleep, and it was -to dream 
of Catherine Seyton. 


CHAPTEE XIII. 


What, Dagon up again ! — I thought we had hurl’d him 
Down on the threshold never more to rise. 

Bring wedge and axe ; and, neighbours, lend your hands, 
And rive the idol into winter fagots ! 

Athelstane, or the Converted Dane. 


Eoland Graeme slept long and sound, and the 
sun was high over the horizon, when the voice of 
his companion summoned him to resume their pil- 
grimage ; and when, hastily arranging his dress, 
he went to attend her call, the enthusiastic matron 
stood already at the threshold, prepared for her 
journey. There was in all the deportment of this 
remarkable woman, a promptitude of execution, 
and a sternness of perseverance, founded on the 
fanaticism which she nursed so deeply, and which 
seemed to absorb all the ordinary purposes and feel- 
ings of mortality. One only human affection gleamed 
through her enthusiastic energies, like the broken 
glimpses of the sun through the rising clouds 
of a storm. It was her maternal fondness for her 
grandson — a fondness carried almost to the verge 
of dotage, in circumstances where the Catholic 
religion was not concerned, but which gave way 
instantly when it chanced either to thwart or come 
in contact with the more settled purpose of her soul, 
and the more devoted duty of her life. Her life she 
would willingly have laid down to save the earthly 
object of her affection ; but that object itself she 


THE ABBOT. 


157 


was ready to hazard, and would have been willing 
to sacrifice, could the restoration of the Church of 
Eome have been purchased with his blood. Her 
discourse by the way, excepting on the few occasions 
in which her extreme love of her grandson found 
opportunity to display itself in anxiety for his health 
and accommodation, turned entirely on the duty of 
raising up the fallen honours of the Church, and re- 
placing a Catholic sovereign on the throne. There 
were times at which she hinted, though very 
obscurely and distantly, that she herself was fore- 
doomed by Heaven to perform a part in this impor- 
tant task ; and that she had more than mere human 
warranty for the zeal with which she engaged in it. 
But on this subject she expressed herself in such 
general language, that it was not easy to decide 
whether she made any actual pretensions to a direct 
and supernatural call, like the celebrated Elizabeth 
Barton, commonly called the Hun of Kent ; ^ or 
whether she only dwelt upon the general duty which 
was incumbent on all Catholics of the time, and the 
pressure of which she felt in an extraordinary degree. 

Yet, though Magdalen Graeme gave no direct 
intimation of her pretensions to be considered as 
something beyond the ordinary class of mortals, the 
demeanour of one or two persons amongst the travel- 
lers whom they occasionally met, as they entered 
the more fertile and populous part of the valley, 
seemed to indicate their belief in her superior 

^ A fanatic nun, called the Holy Maid of Kent, who pre- 
tended to the gift of prophecy and power of miracles. Having 
denounced the doom of speedy death against Henry VIII. for 
his marriage with Anne Boleyu, the prophetess was attainted 
in Parliament, and executed, with her accomplices. Her im- 
posture was for a time so successful, that even Sir Thomas More 
was disposed to be a believer. 


THE ABBOT. 


158 

attributes. It is true, that two clowns, who drove 
before them a herd of cattle — one or two village 

O 

wenches, who seemed bound for some merry-mak- 
ing — a strolling soldier, in a rusted morion, and a 
wandering student, as his threadbare black cloak 
and his satchel of books proclaimed him — passed 
our travellers without observation, or with a look 
of contempt; and, moreover, that two or three 
children, attracted by the appearance of a dress so 
nearly resembling that of a pilgrim, joined in hoot- 
ing and calling, “Out upon the old mass-monger ! ” 
But one or two, who nourished in their bosoms re- 
spect for the downfallen hierarchy — casting first 
a timorous glance around, to see that no one ob- 
served them — hastily crossed themselves — bent 
their knee to sister Magdalen, by which name they 
saluted her — kissed her hand, or even the hem of 
her dalmatique — received with humility the Bene- 
dicite with which she repaid their obeisance ; and 
then starting up, and again looking timidly round 
to see that they had been unobserved, hastily re- 
sumed their journey. Even while within sight of 
persons of the prevailing faith, there were indi- 
viduals bold enough, by folding their arms and 
bending their head, to give distant and silent inti- 
mation that they recognised Sister Magdalen, and 
honoured alike her person and her purpose. 

She failed not to notice to her grandson these 
marks of honour and respect which from time to 
time she received. “ You see,” she said, “ my son, 
that the enemies have been unable altogether to 
suppress the good spirit, or to root out the true 
seed. Amid heretics and schismatics, spoilers of the 
church’s lands, and scoffers at saints and sacraments, 
there is left a remnant.” 


THE ABBOT. 


159 


“It is true, my mother,” said Eoland Graeme; 
but methinks they are of a quality which can help 
us but little. See you not all those who wear steel 
at their side, and bear marks of better quality, ruffle 
past us as they would past the meanest beggars ? 
for those who give us any marks of sympathy, are 
the poorest of the poor, and most outcast of the 
needy, who have neither bread to share with us, nor 
swords to defend us, nor skill to use them if they 
had. That poor wretch that last kneeled to you 
with such deep devotion, and who seemed emaci- 
ated by the touch of some wasting disease within, 
and the grasp of poverty without — that pale, 
shivering, miserable caitiff, how can he aid the great 
schemes you meditate ? ” 

“ Much, my son,” said the matron, with more 
mildness than the page perhaps expected. “ When 
that pious son of the church returns from the shrine 
of Saint Eingan, whither he now travels by my 
counsel, and by the aid of good Catholics, — when 
he returns, healed of his wasting malady, high in 
health, and strong in limb, will not the glory of his 
faithfulness, and its miraculous reward, speak louder 
in the ears of this besotted people of Scotland, than 
the din which is weekly made in a thousand hereti- 
cal pulpits ? ” 

“ Ay, but, mother, I fear the Saint’s hand is out. 
It is long since we have heard of a miracle per- 
formed at Saint Eingan’ s.” 

The matron made a dead pause, and, with a voice 
tremulous with emotion, asked, Art thou so 
unhappy as to doubt the power of the blessed 
Saint ? ” 

“ Nay, mother,” the youth hastened to reply, 
“I believe as the Holy Church commands, and 


i6o 


THE ABBOT. 


doubt not Saint Eingan’s power of healing ; but, be 
it said with reverence, he hath not of late showed 
the inclination.” 

“ And has this land deserved it ? ” said the Cath- 
olic matron, advancing hastily while she spoke, 
until she attained the summit of a rising ground, 
over which the path led, and then standing again 
still. “ Here,” she said, “ stood the Cross, the limits 
of the Halidome of Saint Mary’s — here — on this 
eminence — from which the eye of the holy pilgrim 
might first catch a view of that ancient Monastery, 
the light of the land, the abode of saints, and the 
grave of monarchs — Where is now that emblem 
of our faith? It lies on the earth — a shapeless 
block, from which the broken fragments have been 
carried off, for the meanest uses, till now no sem- 
blance of its original form remains. Look towards 
the east, my son, where the sun was wont to glitter 
on stately spires — from which crosses and bells 
have now been hurled, as if the land had been in- 
vaded once more by barbarous heathens — Look 
at yonder battlements, of which we can, even at 
this distance, descry the partial demolition ; and ask 
if this land can expect from the blessed saints, whose 
shrines and whose* images have been profaned, any 
other miracles but those of vengeance ? How long,” 
she exclaimed, looking upward, “How long shall 
it be delayed ? ” She paused, and then resumed with 
enthusiastic rapidity, “ Yes, my son, all on earth is 
but for a period — joy and grief, triumph and deso- 
lation, succeed each other like cloud and sunshine ; 
— the vineyard shall not be for ever trodden down, 
the gaps shall be amended, and the fruitful branches 
once more dressed and trimmed. Even this day — 
ay, even this hour, I trust to hear news of import- 


THE ABBOT. i6i 

ance. Dally not — let us on — time is brief, and 
judgment is certain.” 

She resumed the path which led to the Abbey — 
a path which, in ancient times, was carefully marked 
out by posts and rails, to assist the pilgrim in 
his journey — these were now torn up and destroyed. 
An half hour’s walk placed them in front of the 
once splendid Monastery, which, although the church 
was as yet entire, had not escaped the fury of the 
times. The long range of cells and of apartments 
for the use of the brethren, which occupied two sides 
of the great square, were almost entirely ruinous, 
the interior having been consumed by fire, which 
only the massive architecture of the outward walls 
had enabled them to resist. The Abbot’s house, 
which formed the third side of the square, was, 
though injured, still inhabited, and afforded refuge 
to the few brethren, who yet, rather by connivance 
than by actual authority, were permitted to remain 
at Kennaquhair. Their stately offices — their pleas- 
ant gardens — the magnificent cloisters constructed 
for their recreation, were all dilapidated and ruin- 
ous ; and some of the building materials had ap- 
parently been put into requisition by persons in the 
village and in the vicinity, who, formerly vassals of 
the Monastery, had not hesitated to appropriate to 
themselves a part of the spoils. Koland saw frag- 
ments of Gothic pillars richly carved, occupying 
the place of door-posts to the meanest huts; and 
here and there a mutilated statue, inverted or laid 
on its side, made the door-post, or threshold, of a 
wretched cow-house. The church itself was less 
injured than the other buildings of the Monastery. 
But the images which had been placed in the num- 
erous niches Qi) of its columns and buttresses, hav- 
VOL. I. — 11 


THE ABBOT. 


162 

ing all fallen under the charge of idolatry, to which 
the superstitious devotion of the papists had justly 
exposed them, had been broken and thrown down, 
without much regard to the preservation of the rich 
and airy canopies and pedestals on which they were 
placed; nor, if the devastation had stopped short 
at this point, could we have considered the preser- 
vation of these monuments of antiquity as an object 
to be put in the balance with the introduction of 
the reformed worship. 

Our pilgrims saw the demolition of these sacred 
and venerable representations of saints and angels 
— for as sacred and venerable they had been taught 
to consider them — with very different feelings. 
The antiquary may be permitted to regret the neces- 
sity of the action, but to Magdalen Graeme it seemed 
a deed of impiety, deserving the instant vengeance 
of heaven — a sentiment in which her relative joined 
for the moment as cordially as herself. Neither, 
however, gave vent to their feelings in words, and 
uplifted hands and eyes formed their only mode of 
expressing them. The page was about to approach 
the great eastern gate of the church, but was pre- 
vented by his guide. “ That gate,’' she said, “ has 
long been blockaded, that the heretical rahble may 
not know there still exist among the brethren of 
Saint Mary’s, men who dare worship where their 
predecessors prayed while alive, and were interred 
when dead — follow me this way, my son.” 

Eoland Graeme followed accordingly ; and Mag- 
dalen, casting a hasty glance to see whether they 
were observed, (for she had learned caution from 
the danger of the times,) commanded her grandson 
to knock at a little wicket which she pointed out to 
him. “ But knock gently,” she added, with a motion 


THE ABBOT. 


163 


expressive of caution. After a little space, during 
which no answer was returned, she signed to Eoland 
to repeat his summons for admission ; and the door 
at length partially opening, discovered a glimpse of 
the thin and timid porter, by whom the duty was 
performed, skulking from the observation of those 
who stood without ; but endeavouring at the same 
time to gain a sight of them without being himself 
seen. How different from the proud consciousness 
of dignity with which the porter of ancient days 
offered his important brow and his goodly person to 
the pilgrims who repaired to Kennaquhair ! His 
solemn Intrate, mei jiliil' was exchanged for a 
tremulous, “You cannot enter now — the brethren 
are in their chambers.” But, when Magdalen Graeme 
asked, in an under tone of voice, “ Hast thou forgot- 
ten me, my brother ? ” he changed his apologetic re- 
fusal to “ Enter, my honoured sister, enter speedily, 
for evil eyes are upon us.” 

They entered accordingly, and having waited un- 
til the porter had, with jealous haste, barred and 
bolted the wicket, were conducted by him through 
several dark and winding passages. As they walked 
slowly on, he spoke to the matron in a subdued 
voice, as if he feared to trust the very walls with 
the avowal which he communicated. 

“ Our Fathers are assembled in the Chapter-house, 
worthy sister — yes, in the Chapter-house — for the 
election of an Abbot. — Ah, Benedicite ! there must 
be no ringing of bells — no high mass — no opening 
of the great gates now, that the people might see 
and venerate their spiritual Father! Our Fathers 
must hide themselves rather like robbers who choose 
a leader, than godly priests who elect a mitred 
Abbot.” 


164 


THE ABBOT. 


“Eegard not that, my brother,” answered Mag- 
dalen Graeme; “the first successors of Saint Peter 
himself were elected, not in sunshine, hut in tem- 
pests — not in the halls of the Vatican, hut in the 
subterranean vaults and dungeons of heathen Home 

— they were not gratulated with shouts and salvos 
of cannon-shot and of musketry, and the display of 
artificial fire — no, my brother — but by the hoarse 
summons of Lictors and Praetors, who came to drag 
the Fathers of the Church to martyrdom. From 
such adversity was the Church once raised, and by 
such will it now he purified. — And mark me, bro- 
ther ! not in the proudest days of the mitred Abbey, 
was a Superior ever chosen, whom his office shall 
so much honour, as he shall be honoured, who now 
takes it upon him in these days of tribulation. On 
whom, my brother, will the choice fall ? ” 

“ On whom can it fall — or, alas ! who would dare to 
reply to the call, save the worthy pupil of the Sainted 
Eustatius — the good and valiant Father Ambrose ? ” 

“ I know it,” said Magdalen ; “ my heart told me, 
long ere your lips had uttered his name. Stand 
forth, courageous champion, and man the fatal 
breach ! — Eise, bold and experienced pilot, and 
seize the helm while the tempest rages ! — Turn 
back the battle, brave raiser of the fallen standard ! 

— Wield crook and sling, noble shepherd of a scat- 
tered flock.” 

“ I pray you, hush, my sister ! ” said the porter, 
opening a door which led into the great church, 
“the brethren will be presently here to celebrate 
their election with a solemn mass — I must marshal 
them the way to the high altar — all the offices of 
this venerable house have now devolved on one poor 
decrepit old man.” 


THE ABBOT. 


165 


He left the church, and Magdalen and Eoland re 
mained alone in that great vaulted space, whose 
style of rich, yet chaste architecture, referred its 
origin to the early part of the fourteenth century, 
the best period of Gothic building. But the niches 
were stripped of their images in the inside as well 
as the outside of the church ; and in the pell-mell 
havoc, the tombs of warriors and of princes had been 
included in the demolition of the idolatrous shrines. 
Lances and swords of antique size, which had hung 
over the tombs of mighty warriors of former days, 
lay now strewed among relics, with which the de- 
votion of pilgrims had graced those of their peculiar 
saints ; and the fragments of the knights and dames, 
which had once lain recumbent, or kneeled in an 
attitude of devotion, where their mortal relics were 
reposed, were mingled with those of the saints and 
angels of the Gothic chisel, which the hand of vio- 
lence had sent headlong from their stations. 

The most fatal symptom of the whole appeared 
to be, that, though this violence had now been com- 
mitted for many months, the Fathers had lost so 
totally all heart and resolution, that they had not 
adventured even upon clearing away the rubbish, 
or restoring the church to some decent degree of 
order. This might have been done without much 
labour. But terror had overpowered the scanty re- 
mains of a body once so powerful, and, sensible they 
were only suffered to remain in this ancient seat by 
connivance and from compassion, they did not ven- 
ture upon taking any step which might be construed 
into an assertion of their ancient rights, contenting 
themselves with the secret and obscure exercise of 
their religious ceremonial, in as unostentatious a 
manner as was possible. 


i66 


THE ABBOT. 


Two or three of the more aged brethren had sunk 
under the pressure of the times, and the ruins had 
been partly cleared away to permit their interment. 
One stone had been laid over Father Nicholas, 
which recorded of him in special, that he had taken 
the vows during the incumbency of Abbot Ingel- 
ram, the period to which his memory so frequently 
recurred. Another flag-stone, yet more recently 
deposited, covered the body of Philip the Sacristan, 
eminent for his aquatic excursion with the phantom 
of Avenel ; and a third, the most recent of all, bore 
the outline of a mitre, and the words Hie jacet 
Eustatius Abbas; for no one dared to add a word 
of commendation in favour of his learning, and 
strenuous zeal for the Koman Catholic faith. 

Magdalen Graeme looked at and perused the brief 
records of these monuments successively, and paused 
over that of Father Eustace. “In a good hour for 
thyself,” she said, “ but oh ! in an evil hour for the 
Church, wert thou called from us. Let thy spirit 
be with us, holy man — encourage thy successor to 
tread in thy footsteps — give him thy bold and in- 
ventive capacity, thy zeal and thy discretion — even 
thy piety exceeds not his.” As she spoke, a side 
door, which closed a passage from the Abbot’s house 
into the church, was thrown open, that the Fathers 
might enter the choir, and conduct to the high altar 
the Superior whom they had elected. 

In former times, this was one of the most splen- 
did of the many pageants which the hierarchy of 
Home had devised to attract the veneration of the 
faithful. The period during which the Abbacy re- 
mained vacant, was a state of mourning, or, as their 
emblematical phrase expressed it, of widowhood ; a 
melancholy term, which was changed into rejoicing 


THE ABBOT. 


167 

and triumph when a new Superior was chosen. 
When the folding doors were on such solemn oc- 
casions thrown open, and the new Abbot appeared 
on the threshold in full-blown dignity, with ring 
and mitre, and dalmatique and crosier, his hoary 
standard-bearers and his juvenile dispensers of in- 
cense preceding him, and the venerable train of 
monks behind him, with all besides which could 
announce the supreme authority to which he was 
now raised, his appearance was a signal for the mag- 
nificent Jubilate to rise from the organ and music- 
loft, and to be joined by the corresponding bursts of 
Alleluiah from the whole assembled congregation. 
Now all was changed. In the midst of rubbish and 
desolation, seven or eight old men, bent and shaken, 
as much by grief and fear as by age, shrouded hastily 
in the proscribed dress of their order, wandered like 
a procession of spectres, from the door which had 
been thrown open, up through the encumbered pas- 
sage, to the high altar, there to instal their elected 
Superior a chief of ruins. It was like a band of 
bewildered travellers choosing a chief in the wilder- 
ness of Arabia ; or a shipwrecked crew electing a 
captain upon the barren island on which fate has 
thrown them. 

They who, in peaceful times, are most ambitious 
of authority among others, shrink from the compe- 
tition at such eventful periods, when neither ease 
nor parade attend the possession of it, and when it 
gives only a painful pre-eminence both in danger 
and in labour, and exposes the ill-fated chieftain 
to the murmurs of his discontented associates, as 
well as to the first assault of the common enemy. 
But he on whom the office of the Abbot of Saint 
Mary’s was now conferred, had a mind fitted for 


i68 


THE ABBOT. 


the situation to which he was called. Bold and 
enthusiastic, yet generous and forgiving — wise and 
skilful, yet zealous and prompt — he wanted but a 
better cause than the support of a decaying super- 
stition, to have raised him to the rank of a truly 
great man. But as the end crowns the work, it 
also forms the rule by which it must be ultimately 
judged; and those who, with sincerity and gener- 
osity, fight and fall in an evil cause, posterity can 
only compassionate as victims of a generous but 
fatal error. Amongst these, we must rank Ambro- 
sius, the last Abbot of Kennaquhair, whose designs 
must be condemned, as their success would have 
riveted on Scotland the chains of antiquated super- 
stition and spiritual tyranny ; but whose talents 
commanded respect, and whose virtues, even from 
the enemies of his faith, extorted esteem. 

The bearing of the new Abbot served of itself 
to dignify a ceremonial which was deprived of all 
other attributes of grandeur. Conscious of the peril 
in which they stood, and recalling, doubtless, the 
better days they had seen, there hung over his 
brethren an appearance of mingled terror, and grief, 
and shame, which induced them to hurry over the 
office in which they were engaged, as something at 
once degrading and dangerous. 

But not so Father Ambrose. His features, in- 
deed, expressed a deep melancholy, as he walked 
up the centre aisle, amid the ruin of things which 
he considered as holy, but his brow was undejected, 
and his step firm and solemn. He seemed to think 
that the dominion which he was about to receive, 
depended in no sort upon the external circum- 
stances under which it was conferred; and if a 
mind so firm was accessible to sorrow or fear, it 


THE ABBOT. 169 

was not on his own account, but on that of the 
Church to which he had devoted himself. 

At length he stood on the broken steps of the high 
altar, barefooted, as was the rule, and holding in 
his hand his pastoral staff, for the gemmed ring 
and jewelled mitre had become secular spoils. No 
obedient vassals came, man after man, to make 
their homage and to 'offer the tribute which should 
provide their spiritual Superior with palfrey and 
trappings. No Bishop assisted at the solemnity, 
to receive into the higher ranks of the Church no- 
bility a dignitary, whose voice in the legislature 
was as potential as his own. With hasty and 
maimed rites, the few remaining brethren stepped 
forward alternately to give their new Abbot the 
kiss of peace, in token of fraternal affection and 
spiritual homage. Mass was then hastily per- 
formed, but in such precipitation as if it had been 
hurried over rather to satisfy the scruples of a few 
youths, who were impatient to set out on a hunt- 
ing party, than as if it made the most solemn part 
of a solemn ordination. The officiating priest fal- 
tered as he spoke the service, and often looked 
around, as if he expected to be interrupted in the 
midst of his office ; and the brethren listened as to 
that which, short as it was, they wished yet more 
abridged. ^ 

These symptoms of alarm increased as the cere- 
mony proceeded, and, as it seemed, were not caused 
by mere apprehension alone ; for, amid the pauses 
of the hymn, there were heard without sounds of 

1 In Catholic countries, in order to reconcile the pleasures of the 
great with the observances of religion, it was common, when a party 
was bent for the chase, to celebrate mass, abridged and maimed of 
its rites, called a hunting-mass, the brevity of which was designed 
to correspond with the impatience of the audience. 


THE ABBOT. 


!7o 

a very different sort, beginning faintly and at a 
distance, but at length approaching close to the 
exterior of the church, and stunning with disso- 
nant clamour those engaged in the service. The 
winding of horns, blown with no regard to har- 
mony or concert ; the jangling of bells, the thump- 
ing of drums, the squeaking of bagpipes, and the 
clash of cymbals — the shoute of a multitude, now 
as in laughter, now as in anger — the shrill tones 
of female voices, and of those of children, mingling 
with the deeper clamours of men, formed a Babel 
of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into 
utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. 
The cause and result of this extraordinary inter- 
ruption will be explained in the next chapter. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier — 

Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern — 

Not the wild fiendj that mingles both together, 

And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, 

Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting — 
Comic, yet fearful — droll, and yet destructive. 

The Conspiracy, 

The monks ceased their song, which, like that of 
the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berk- 
ley, died away in a quaver of consternation ; and, 
like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence 
of the kite, they at first made a movement to dis- 
perse and fly in different directions, and then, with 
despair rather than hope, huddled themselves around 
their new Abbot ; who, retaining the lofty and un- 
dismayed look which had dignified him through 
the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of 
the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous 
mark on which danger might discharge itself, and 
to save his companions by his self-devotion, since 
he could afford them no other protection. 

Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Grseme and 
the page stepped from the station which hith- 
erto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached 
to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which 
approached the monks, whatever that might be. 
Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot ; and 
while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, 
looking towards the main entrance, at which the 


172 


THE ABBOT. 


noise now roared most loudly, and whicli was at 
the same time assailed with much knocking, laid 
his hand upon his dagger. 

The Abbot motioned to both to forbear ; " Peace, 
my sister,” he said, in a low tone, but which, be- 
ing in a different key from the tumultuary sounds 
without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the 
tumult ; — “ Peace, ” he said, “ my sister ; let the 
new Superior of St. Mary’s himself receive and re- 
ply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who 
come to celebrate his installation. — And thoii, my 
son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly 
weapon ; — if it is the pleasure of our protectress 
that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of 
violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it 
not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a 
Catholic son of the church. ” 

The noise and knocking at the outer gate became 
now every moment louder; and voices were heard 
impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, 
with dignity, and with a step which even the 
emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor 
precipitate, moved towards the portal, and de- 
manded to know, in a tone of authority, who it 
was that disturbed their worship, and what they 
desired ? 

There was a moment’s silence, and then a loud 
laugh from without. At length a voice replied, 

“ We desire entrance into the church ; and when 
the door is opened, you will soon see who we are. ” 

" By whose authority do you require entrance ? ” 
said the Father. 

“ By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot 
of Unreason, ” ^ (^) replied the voice from without ; 

1 Note V. — Abbot of Unreason. 


THE ABBOT. 


173 


and, from the laugh which followed, it seemed as 
if there was something highly ludicrous couched 
under this reply. 

“ I know not, and seek not to know, your mean- 
ing, ” replied the Abbot, since it is probably a 
rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and 
leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as hav- 
ing lawful authority to command here. ” 

“ Open the door, ” said another rude voice, " and 
we will try titles with you. Sir Monk, and show 
you a Superior we must all obey. ” 

“ Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, ” 
said a third, “ and down with the carrion monks 
who would bar us of our privilege!” A general 
shout followed. “ Ay, ay, our privilege I our privi- 
lege ! down with the doors, and with the lurdane 
monks, if they make opposition 1 ” 

The knocking was now exchanged for blows with 
great hammers, to which the doors, strong as they 
were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, 
who saw resistance would be vain, and who did 
not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at 
offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with 
difficulty obtained a hearing. “ My children, ” said 
he, " I will save you from committing a great sin. 
The porter will presently undo the gate — he is 
gone to fetch the keys — meantime, I pray you to 
consider with yourselves if you are in a state of 
mind to cross the holy threshold. ” 

“ Tillyvalley for your papistry ! ” was answered 
from without ; “ we are in the mood of the monks 
when they are merriest, and that is when they sup 
beef-brewis for lenten-kail. So, if your porter 
hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we 
heave away readily. — Said I well, comrades ? ” 


174 


THE ABBOT. 


. " Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, ** 
said the multitude ; and had not the keys arrived 
at that moment, and the porter, in hasty terror, 
performed his office, throwing open the great door, 
the populace would have saved him the trouble. 
The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor 
fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood- 
gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rush- 
ing inundation. The monks, with one consent, 
had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who 
alone kept his station, about three yards from the 
entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. 
His brethren — partly encouraged by his devotion, 
partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated 
by a sense of duty — remained huddled close to- 
gether, at the back of their Superior. There was 
a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were 
opened ; but, contrary to what might have been ex- 
pected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into 
the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of 
" A halt ! — a halt — to order, my masters ! and let 
the two reverend fathers greet each other, as be- 
seems them. ” 

The appearance of the crowd who were thus 
called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It 
was composed of men, women, and children, ludi- 
crously disguised in various habits, and presenting 
groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here 
one fellow with a horse’s head painted before him, 
and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a 
long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the 
body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, 
and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of 
the hobby-horse,^ so often alluded to in our an- 

^ Note VI. — The Hobby-horee. 


THE ABBOT. 


175 


cient drama; and which still flourishes on the 
stage in the battle that concludes Bayes’s tragedy. 
To rival the address and agility displayed by this 
character, another personage advanced, in the more 
formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded 
wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at 
the end, which made various -efforts to overtake 
and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabsea, 
daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before 
him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely 
armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a 
lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the 
monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and 
one or two other wild animals, played their parts 
with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the 
decided preference which they gave to the use of 
their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal 
annunciation, to assure the most timorous specta- 
tors that they had to do with habitual bipeds. 
There was a group of outlaws, with Robin Hood 
and Little John at their head ^ — the best represen- 
tation e:xhibited at the time ; and no great wonder, 
since most of the actors were, by profession, the 
banished men and thieves whom they presented. 
Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked 
description. Men were disguised as women, and 
women as men — children wore the dress of aged 
people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their 
hands, furred gowns on their little hacks, and caps 
on their round heads — while grandsires assumed 
the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. 
Besides these, many had their faces painted, and 
wore their shirts over the rest of their dress ; 
while coloured pasteboard and ribands furnished 
1 Note VII. — Representation of Robin Hood and Little John. 


176 


THE ABBOT. 


out decorations for others. Those who wanted all 
these properties, blacked their faces, and turned 
their jackets inside out ; and thus the transmuta- 
tion of the whole assembly into a set of mad gro- 
tesque mummers, was at once completed. 

The pause which the masqueraders made, wait- 
ing apparently for some person of the highest 
authority amongst them, gave those within the 
Abbey Church full time to observe all these absur- 
dities. They were at no loss to comprehend their 
purpose and meaning. 

Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early 
period, and during the plenitude of her power, the 
Church of Home not only connived at, but even 
encouraged, such saturnalian licenses as the in- 
habitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood 
had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such 
occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged, 
by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and 
ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to in- 
demnify themselves for the privations and penances 
imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all 
other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites 
and ceremonial of the church itself were most fre- 
quently resorted to ; and, strange to say, with the 
approbation of the clergy themselves. 

While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, 
they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences 
of suffering the people to become so irreverently 
familiar with things sacred; they then imagined 
the laity to be much in the condition of a la- 
bourer’s horse, which does not submit to the bridle 
and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at 
rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in 
his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gam- 


THE ABBOT. 


177 


bols at the master who usually drives him. But, 
when times changed — when doubt of the Koman 
Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, 
had possessed the reformed party, the clergy dis- 
covered, too late, that no small inconvenience 
arose from the established practice of games and 
merry-makings, in which they themselves, and 
all they held most sacred, were made the subject 
of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller 
politicians than the Eomish churchmen, that the 
same actions have a very different tendency when 
done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, 
than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and 
uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of 
the latest, endeavoured, where they had any re- 
maining influence, to discourage the renewal of 
these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the 
Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed 
preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity 
and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than 
disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which 
they placed the Church of Eome, and her obser- 
vances. But it was long ere these scandalous and 
immoral sports could be abrogated ; — the rude mul- 
titude continued attached to their favourite pas- 
times ; and, both in England and Scotland, the 
mitre of the Catholic — the rochet of the reformed 
bishop — and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic 
divine — were, in turn, compelled to give place to 
those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the 
Boy Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason.^ 

It was the latter personage who now, in full 
costume, made his approach to the great door of 

1 From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the 
same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. 

VOL. I. — 12 


78 


THE ABBOT. 


the Church of St. Mary’s, accoutred in such a 
manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, 
on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, 
whom he came to beard on the very day of his in- 
stallation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the 
chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a 
stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab 
form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemen- 
tal paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of 
leather, with the front like a grenadier’s cap, 
adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of 
tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which 
was the most prominent feature, being of unusual 
size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head- 
gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of 
canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. 
On one slioulder was fixed the painted figure of 
an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pas- 
toral staff, and in the left a small mirror having 
a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, 
whose adventures, translated into English, were 
whilom extremely popular, and which may still 
be procured in black letter, for about one sterling 
pound per leaf. 

The attendants of this mock dignitary had their 
proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same bur- 
lesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent 
which their leader did to the Superior. They fol- 
lowed their leader in regular procession, and the 
motley characters, which had waited his arrival, 
now crowded into the church in his train, shouting 
as they came, — "A hall, a hall ! for the venerable 
Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, 
and the Eight Eeverend Abbot of Unreason ! ” 

The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed 


THE ABBOT. 


179 


its din ; the boys shrieked and howled, and the 
men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled 
and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the 
dragon walloped and hissed, and the hobby-horse 
neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked 
and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against 
the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of 
their energetic caprioles. 

It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, 
that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and 
must have altogether stunned any indifferent spec- 
tator; the monks, whom personal apprehension 
and a consciousness that much of the popular en- 
joyment arose from the ridicule being directed 
against them, were, moreover, little comforted by 
the refiection, that, bold in their disguise, the 
mummers who whooped and capered around them, 
might, on slight provocation, turn their jest into 
earnest, or at least proceed to those practical pleas- 
antries, which at all times arise so naturally out 
of the frolicsome and mischievous disposition of 
the populace. They looked to their Abbot amid 
the tumult, with such looks as landsmen cast upon 
the pilot, when the storm is at the highest — looks 
which express that they are devoid of all hope 
arising from their own exertions, and not very con- 
fident in any success likely to attend those of their 
Palinurus. 

The Abbot himself seemed at a stand; he felt 
no fear, but he was sensible of the danger of ex- 
pressing his rising indignation, which he was 
scarcely able to suppress. He made a gesture with 
his hand as if commanding silence, which was 
at first only replied to by redoubled shouts, and 
peals of wild laughter. When, however, the same 


i8o THE ABBOT. 

motion, and as nearly in the same manner, had 
been made by Howleglas, it was immediately 
obeyed by his riotous companions, who expected 
fresh food for mirth in the conversation betwixt 
the real and mock Abbot, having no small confi- 
dence in the vulgar wit and impudence of their 
leader. Accordingly, they began to shout, “ To 
it, fathers — to it!” — "Fight monk, fight mad- 
cap — Abbot against Abbot is fair play, and so 
is reason against unreason, and malice against 
monkery ! ” 

“ Silence, my mates ! ” said Howleglas ; “ cannot 
two learned Fathers of the Church hold commun- 
ing together, but you must come here with your 
bear-garden whoop and hollo, as if you were 
hounding forth a mastiff upon a mad bull ? I say, 
silence! and let this learned Father and I confer, 
touching matters affecting our mutual state and 
authority. ” 

" My children ” — said Father Ambrose. 

" My children too, — and happy children they 
are ! ” said his burlesque counterpart ; “ many a 
wise child knows not its own father, and it is well 
they have two to choose betwixt. ” 

" If thou hast aught in thee, save scoffing and 
ribaldry, ” said the real Abbot, " permit me, for 
thine own soul’s sake, to speak a few words to 
these misguided men. ” 

"Aught in me but scofi&ng, say’st thou?” re- 
torted the Abbot of Unreason ; " why, reverend 
brother, I have all that becomes mine office at this 
time a-day — I have beef, ale,^ and brandyrwine, 
with other condiments not worth mentioning ; and 
for speaking, man — why, speak away, and we 
will have turn about, like honest fellows. ” 


THE ABBOT. 


i8i 

During this discussion the wrath of Magdalen 
Graeme had risen to the uttermost ; she approached 
the Abbot, and placing herself by his side, said in 
a low and yet distinct tone — " Wake and arouse 
thee. Father — the sword of Saint Peter is in 
thy hand — strike and avenge Saint Peter’s patri- 
mony! Bind them in the chains, which, being 
riveted by the church on earth, are riveted in 
Heaven ” 

“ Peace, sister ! ” said the Abbot ; “ let not their 
madness destroy our discretion — I pray thee, 
peace, and let me do mine office. It is the first, 
peradventure it may be the last time, I shall be 
called on to discharge it. ” 

“ Nay, my holy brother ! ” said Howleglas, “ I 
rede you, take the holy sister’s advice — never 
throve convent without woman’s counsel. ” 

“ Peace, vain man! ” said the Abbot; “ and you, 
my brethren ” 

“ Nay, nay I ” said the Abbot of Unreason, “ no 
speaking to the lay people, until you have con- 
ferred with your brother of the cowl. I swear by 
bell, book, and candle, that not one of my congre- 
gation shall listen to one word you have to say ; so 
you had as well address yourself to me who will. ” 
To escape a conference so ludicrous, the Abbot 
again attempted an appeal to what respectful feel- 
ings might yet remain amongst the inhabitants of 
the Halidome, once so devoted to their spiritual 
Superiors. Alas 1 the Abbot of Unreason had only 
to flourish his mock crosier, and the whooping, the 
hallooing, and the dancing, were renewed with a 
veheme^nce which would have defied the lungs of 
Stentor. 

“ And now, my mates, ^ said the Abbot of Un- 


i 82 


THE ABBOT. 


reason, “ once again dight your gabs and be hushed 
— let us see if the Cock of Kennaquhair will fight 
or flee the pit. ” 

There was again a dead silence of expectation, of 
which Father Ambrose availed himself to address 
his antagonist, seeing plainly that he could gain 
an audience on no other terms. " Wretched man ! ” 
said he, " hast thou no better employment for thy 
carnal wit, than to employ it in leading these 
blind and helpless creatures into the pit of utter 
darkness ? ” 

“ Truly, my brother, ” replied Howleglas, “ I can 
see little difference betwixt your employment and 
mine, save that you make a sermon of a jest, and 
I make a jest of a sermon. ” 

“Unhappy being,” said the Abbot, “who hast 
no better subject of pleasantry than that which 
should make thee tremble — no sounder jest than 
thine own sins, and no better objects for laughter 
than those who can absolve thee from the guilt of 
them ! ” 

“Verily, my reverend brother,” said the mock 
Abbot, “ what’ you say might be true, if, in laugh- 
ing at hypocrites, I meant to laugh at religion. — 
O, it is a precious thing to wear a long dress, with 
a girdle and a cowl — we become a holy pillar of 
Mother Church, and a boy must not play at ball 
against the walls for fear of breaking a painted 
window ! ” 

“ And will you, my friends, ” said the Abbot, 
looking round and speaking with a vehemence 
which secured him a tranquil audience for some 
time, — “ will you suffer a profane buffoon, within 
the very church of God, to insult his ministers ? 
Many of you — all of you, perhaps — have lived 


THE ABBOT. 


183 

under my holy predecessors, who were called upon 
to rule in this church where I am called upon to 
suffer. If you have worldly goods, they are their 
gift; and, when you scorned not to accept better 
gifts — the mercy and forgiveness of the Church — 
were they not ever at your command ? — did we 
not pray while you were jovial — wake while you 
slept ? ” 

" Some of the good wives of the Halidome were 
wont to say so, ” said the Abbot of Unreason but 
his jest met in this instance but slight applause, 
and Father Ambrose, having gained a moment’s 
attention, hastened to improve it. 

" What ! ” said he ; " and is this grateful — is it 
seemly — is it honest — to assail with scorn a few 
old men, from whose predecessors you hold all, 
and whose only wish is to die in peace among 
these fragments of what was once the light of the 
land, and whose daily prayer is, that they may be 
removed ere that hour comes when the last spark 
shall be extinguished, and the land left in the 
darkness which it has chosen rather than light? 
We have not turned against you the edge of the 
spiritual sword, to revenge our temporal persecu- 
tion ; the tempest of your wrath hath despoiled us 
of land, and deprived us almost of our daily food, 
but we have not repaid it with the thunders of ex- 
communication, — we only pray your leave to live 
and die within the church which is our own, in- 
voking God, Our Lady, and the Holy Saints, to 
pardon your sins, and our own, undisturbed by 
scurril buffoonery and blasphemy. ” 

This speech, so different in tone and termination 
from that which the crowd had expected, produced 
an effect upon their feelings unfavourable to the 


184 


THE ABBOT. 


prosecution of their frolic. The morrice- dancers 
stood still — the hobby-horse surceased his caper- 
ing — pipe and tabor were mute, and " silence, like 
a heavy cloud, ” seemed to descend on the late noisy 
rabble. Several of the beasts were obviously moved 
to compunction ; the bear could not restrain his 
sobs, and a huge fox was observed to wipe his eyes 
with his tail. But in especial the dragon, lately 
so formidably rampant, now relaxed the terror of 
his claws, uncoiled his tremendous rings, and 
grumbled out of his fiery throat in a repentant 
tone, “ By the mass, I thought no harm in exercis- 
ing our old pastime, but an I had thought the good 
Father would have taken it so to heart, I would as 
soon have played your devil as your dragon. ” 

In this momentary pause, the Abbot stood 
amongst the miscellaneous and grotesque forms by 
which he was surrounded, triumphant as Saint 
Anthony, in Callot’s Temptations; but Howleglas 
would not so resign his purpose. 

“ And how now, my masters ! ” said he ; “ is 
this fair play or no? Have you not chosen me 
Abbot of Unreason, and is it lawful for any of you 
to listen to common sense to-day ? Was I not for- 
mally elected by you in solemn chapter, held in 
Luckie Martin’s change-house, and will you now 
desert me, and give up your old pastime and privi- 
lege ? — Play out the play — and he that speaks the 
next word of sense or reason, or bids us think or 
consider, or the like of that, which befits not 
the day, I will have him solemnly ducked in the 
mill-dam ! ” 

The rabble, mutable as usual, huzzaed, the pipe 
and tabor struck up, the hobby-horse pranced, the 
beasts roared, and even the repentant dragon began 


THE ABBOT. 


i8s 

again to coil up his spires and prepare himself for 
fresh gambols. But the Abbot might have still 
overcome, by his eloquence and his entreaties, the 
malicious designs of the revellers, had not Dame 
Magdalen Graeme given loose to the indignation 
which she had long suppressed. 

" Scoffers, ” she said, “ and men of Belial — Blas- 
phemous heretics, and truculent tyrants ” 

" Your patience, ’my sister, I entreat and I com- 
mand you ! ” said the Abbot ; “ let me do my duty 
— disturb me not in mine office ! ” 

But Dame Magdalen continued to thunder forth 
her threats in the name of Popes and Councils, and 
in the name of every Saint, from Saint Michael 
downward. 

“ My comrades ! ” said the Abbot of Unreason, 
" this good dame hath not spoke a single word of 
reason, and therein may esteem herself free from 
the law. But what she spoke was meant for rea- 
son, and, therefore, unless she confesses and avouches 
all which she has said to be nonsense, it shall pass 
for such, so far as to incur the penalty of our stat- 
utes. — Wherefore, holy dame, pilgrim, or abbess, 
or whatever thou art, be mute with thy mummery 
or beware the mill-dam. We will have neither 
spiritual nor temporal scolds in our Diocese of 
Unreason ! ” 

As he spoke thus, he extended his hand towards 
the old woman, while his followers shouted, " A 
doom — a doom ! ” and prepared to second his pur- 
, pose, when lo ! it was suddenly frustrated. Boland 
Grceme had witnessed with indignation the insults 
offered to his old spiritual preceptor, but yet had 
wit enough to reflect he could render him no assis- 
tance, but might well, by ineffective interference, 


i86 


THE ABBOT. 


make matters worse. But when he saw his aged 
relative in danger of personal violence, he gave 
way to the natural impetuosity of his temper, and, 
stepping forward, struck his poniard into the body 
of the Abbot of Unreason, whom the blow instantly 
prostrated on the pavement. 


CHAPTER XV. 


As when in tumults rise the ignoble crowd, 

Mad are their motions, and their tongues are loud. 

And stones and brands in rattling furies fly. 

And all the rustic arms which fury can supply — 

Then if some grave and pious man appear, 

They hush their noise, and lend a listening ear. 

Dryden’s Virgil, 

A DREADI'UL shout of veugeauce was raised by the 
revellers, whose sport was thus so fearfully inter- 
rupted; but, for an instant, the want of weapons 
amongst the multitude, as well as the inflamed fea- 
tures and brandished poniard of Eoland Grseme, 
kept them at bay, while the Abbot, horror-struck 
at the violence, implored, with uplifted hands, par- 
don for bloodshed committed within the sanctuary. 
Magdalen Graeme alone expressed triumph . in the 
blow her descendant had dealt to the scoffer, mixed, 
however, with a wild and anxious expression of ter- 
ror for her grandson’s safety. “ Let him perish,” she 
said, “ in his blasphemy — let him die on the holy 
pavement which he has insulted ! ” 

But the rage of the multitude, the grief of the 
Abbot, the exultation of the enthusiastic Magdalen, 
were all mistimed and unnecessary. Howleglas, 
mortally wounded as he was supposed to be, sprung 
alertly up from the floor, calling aloud, “ A miracle, 
a miracle, my masters ! as brave a miracle as ever 
was wrought in the Kirk of Kennaquhair. — And I 
charge you, my masters, as your lawfully chosen 


THE ABBOT. 


1 88 

Abbot, that you touch no one without my command 
— You, wolf and bear, will guard this pragmatic 
youth, but without hurting him — and you, rever- 
end brother, will, with your comrades, withdraw to 
your cells ; for our conference has ended like all 
conferences, leaving each of his own mind, as be- 
fore ; and if we fight, both you, and your brethren, 
and the Kirk, will have the worst on’t — Wherefore, 
pack up your pipes and begone.” 

The hubbub was beginning again to awaken, but 
still Father Ambrose hesitated, as uncertain to what 
path his duty called him, whether to face out the 
present storm, or to reserve himself for a better 
moment. His brother of Unreason observed his 
difficulty, and said, in a tone more natural and less 
affected than that with which he had hitherto sus- 
tained his character, “ We came hither, my good sir, 
more in mirth than in mischief — our bark is worse 
than our bite — and, especially, we mean you no 
personal harm — wherefore, draw off while the play 
is good ; for it is ill whistling for a hawk when she 
is once on the soar, and worse to snatch the quarry 
from the ban-dog — Let these fellows once begin 
their brawl, and it will be too much for madness 
itself, let alone the Abbot of Unreason, to bring 
them back to the lure.” 

The brethren crowded around Father Ambrosius, 
and joined in urging him to give place to the tor- 
rent. The present revel was, they said, an ancient 
custom which his predecessors had permitted, and 
old Father Nicholas himself had played the dragon 
in the days of the Abbot Ingelram. 

“ And we now reap the fruit of the seed which 
they have so unadvisedly sown,” said Amhrosius; 
“ they taught men to make a mock of what is holy, 


THE ABBOT. 


189 


what wonder that the descendants of scoffers become 
robbers and plunderers ? But be it as you list, my 
brethren — move towards the dortour — And you, 
dame, I command you, by the authority which I 
have over you, and by your respect for that youth’s 
safety, that you go with us without farther speech 
— Yet, stay — what are your intentions towards that 
youth whom you detain prisoner X — Wot ye,” he 
continued, addressing Howleglas in a stern tone of 
voice, “that he bears the livery of the house of 
Avenel? They who fear not the anger of Heaven, 
may at least dread the wrath of man.” 

“ Cumber not yourself concerning him,” answered 
Howleglas, “we know right well who and what 
he is.” 

“ Let me pray,” said the Abbot, in a tone of en- 
treaty, “that you do him no wrong for the rash 
deed which he attempted in his imprudent zeal.” 

“ I say, trouble not yourself about it, father,” an- 
swered Howleglas, “ but move off with your train, 
male and female, or I will not undertake to save 
yonder she-saint from the ducking-stool — And as for 
bearing of malice, my stomach has no room for it ; 
it is,” he added, clapping his hand on his portly 
belly, “too well bombasted out with straw and 
buckram — gramercy to them both — they kept out 
that madcap’s dagger as well as a Milan corslet 
could have done.” 

In fact, the home-driven poniard of Eoland Graeme 
had lighted upon the stuffing of the fictitious paunch, 
which the Abbot of Unreason wore as a part of his 
characteristic dress, and it was only the force of the 
blow which had prostrated that reverend person on 
the ground for a moment. 

Satisfied in some degree by this man’s assurances, 


190 


THE ABBOT. 


and compelled to give way to superior force, the Ab- 
bot Ambrosius retired from the Church at the head 
of the monks, and left the court free for the revel- 
lers to work their will. But wild and wilful as 
these rioters were, they accompanied the retreat of 
the religionists with none of those shouts of con- 
tempt and derision with which they had at first 
hailed them. The Abbot’s discourse had affected 
some of them with remorse, others with shame, 
and all with a transient degree of respect. They 
remained silent until the last monk had disap- 
peared through the side-door which communicated 
with their dwelling-place, ' and even then it cost 
some exhortations on the part of Howleglas, some 
caprioles of the hobby-horse, and some wallops of 
the dragon, to rouse once more the rebuked spirit 
of revelry. 

“And how now, my masters ?” said the Abbot of 
Unreason; “and wherefore look on me with such 
blank Jack-a-Lent visages ? Will you lose your old 
pastime for an old wife’s tale of saints and purga- 
tory ? Why, I thought you would have made all 
split long since — Come, strike up, tabor and harp, 
strike up, fiddle and rebeck — dance and be merry 
to-day, and let care come to-morrow ! Bear and 
wolf, look to your prisoner — prance, hobby — hiss, 
dragon, and halloo, boys ! — we grow older every 
moment we stand idle, and life is too short to be 
spent in playing mumchance.” 

This pithy exhortation was attended with the 
effect desired. They fumigated the Church with 
burnt wool and feathers instead of incense, put foul 
water into the holy- water basins, and celebrated a 
parody on 'the Church-service, the mock Abbot 
officiating at the altar; they sung ludicrous and 


THE ABBOT. 


191 

indecent parodies, to the tunes of church hymns ; they 
violated whatever vestments or vessels belonging to 
the Abbey they could lay their hands upon ; and, 
playing every freak which the whim of the moment 
could suggest to their wild caprice, at length they 
fell to more lasting deeds of demolition, pulled down 
and destroyed some carved wood- work, dashed out 
the painted windows which had escaped former vio- 
lence, and in their rigorous search after sculpture 
dedicated to idolatry, began to destroy what orna- 
ments yet remained entire upon the tombs, and 
around the cornices of the pillars. 

The spirit of demolition, like other tastes, in- 
creases by indulgence ; from these lighter attempts 
at mischief, the more tumultuous part of the meet- 
ing began to meditate destruction on a more ex- 
tended scale — “ Let us heave it down altogether, 
the old crow’s nest,” became a general cry among 
them ; “ it has served the Pope and his rooks too 
long ; ” and up they struck a ballad which was then 
popular among the lower classes. 

“ The Paip, that pagan full of pride. 

Hath blinded us ower lang, 

For where the blind the blind doth lead, 

No marvel baith gae wrang. 

Like prince and king, 

He led the ring 
Of all iniquity. 

Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix. 

Under the greenwood tree. 


•*The bishop rich, he could not preach 
For sporting with the lasses ; 

The silly friar behoved to fleech 
For awmous as he passes ; 


192 


THE ABBOT. 


The curate his creed 
He could not read, — 

Shame fa’ the company ! 

Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix. 

Under the greenwood tree.” * 

Thundering out this chorus of a notable hunting 
song, which had been pressed into the service of 
some polemical poet, the followers of the Abbot of 
Unreason were turning every moment more tumul- 
tuous, and getting beyond the management even of 
that reverend prelate himself, when a knight in full 
armour, followed by two or three men-at-arms, en- 
tered the church, and in a stern voice commanded 
them to forbear their riotous mummery. 

His visor was up, but if it had been lowered, the 
cognizance of the holly-branch sufficiently distin- 
guished Sir Halbert Glendinning, who, on his 
homeward road, was passing through the village of 
Kennaquhair ; and moved, perhaps, by anxiety 
for his brother’s safety, had come directly to the 
church on hearing of the uproar. 

“What is the meaning of this,” he said, “my 
masters ? are ye Christian men, and the king’s 
subjects, and yet waste and destroy church and 
chancel like so many heathens ? ” 

All stood silent, though doubtless there were 
several disappointed and surprised at receiving 

^ These rude rhymes are taken, with trifling alterations, from 
a ballad called Trim-go-trix. It occurs in a singular collection, 
entitled, “A Compendious Book of Godly and Spiritual Songs, 
collected out of sundrie parts of the Scripture, with sundry of 
other ballatis changed out of prophane sanges, for avoyding of sin 
and harlotrie, with Augmentation of sundrie Gude and Godly 
Ballates. Edinburgh, printed by Andro Hart.” This curious 
collection has been reprinted in Mr. John Grahame Daly ell’s 
Scottish Poems of the 16th Century. Edin. 1801, 2 vols. 


THE ABBOT. 


193 


chiding instead of thanks from so zealous a 
protestant. 

The dragon, indeed, did at length take upon him 
to be spokesman, and growled from the depth of his 
painted maw, that they did but sweep Popery out 
of the church with the besom of destruction. 

“What! my friends,” replied Sir Halbert Glen- 
dinning, “ think you this mumming and masquing 
has not more of Popery in it than have these stone 
walls ? Take the leprosy out of your flesh, before 
you speak of purifying stone walls — abate your 
insolent license, which leads but to idle vanity 
and sinful excess ; and know, that what you now 
practise, is one of the profane and unseemly sports 
introduced by the priests of Eome themselves, to 
mislead and to brutify the souls which fell into 
their net.” 

“Marry come up — are you there with your 
bears ? ” muttered the dragon, with a draconic sul- 
lenness, which was in good keeping with his char- 
acter, “we had as good have been Komans still, 
if we are to have np freedom in our pastimes I ” 

“Dost thou reply to me so?” said Sir Halbert 
Glendinning; “or is there any pastime in grovel- 
ling on the ground there like a gigantic kail-worm ? 
— Get out of thy painted case, or, by my knight- 
hood, I will treat you like the beast and reptile you 
have made yourself.” 

“ Beast and reptile ? ” retorted the offended dragon, 
“setting aside your knighthood, I hold myself as 
well a born man as thyself.” 

The Knight made no answer in words, but be- 
stowed two such blows with the but of his lance on 
the petulant dragon, that had not the hoops which 
constituted the ribs of the machine been pretty 

VOL. I. — 13 


194 


THE ABBOT. 


strong, they would hardly have saved those of the 
actor from being broken. In all haste the masquer 
crept out of his disguise, unwilling to abide a third 
buffet from the lance of the enraged Knight. And 
when the ex-dragon stood on the floor of the church, 
he presented to Halbert Glendinning the well- 
known countenance of Dan^ of the Howlet-hirst, an 
ancient comrade of his own, ere fate had raised him 
so high above' the rank to which he was born. The 
clown looked sulkily upon the Knight, as if to up- 
braid him for his violence towards an old acquaint- 
ance, and Glendinning’s own good-nature reproached 
him for the violence he had acted upon him. 

“I did wrong to strike thee, Dan,” he said; 
“ but in truth, I knew thee not — thou wert ever a 
mad fellow — come to Avenel Castle, and we shall 
see how my hawks fly.” 

“ And if we show him not falcons that will mount 
as merrily as rockets,” said the Abbot of Unreason, 
“ I would your honour laid as hard on my bones as 
you did on his even now.” 

“ How now. Sir Knave,” said the Knight, " and 
what has brought you hither ? ” 

The Abbot, hastily ridding himself of the false 
nose which mystified his physiognomy, and the 
supplementary belly which made up his disguise, 
stood before his master in his real character, of 
Adam Woodcock, the falconer of Avenel. 

“How, varlet!” said the Knight; “hast thou 
dared to come here, and disturb the very house my 
brother was dwelling in ? ” 

“ And it was even for that reason, craving your 
honour’s pardon, that I came hither — for I heard 
the country was to be up to choose an Abbot of Un- 
reason, and sure, thought I, I that can sing, dance^ 


THE ABBOT. 


195 


leap backwards over a broadsword, and am as good 
a fool as ever sought promotion, have all chance of 
carrying the office; and if I gain my election, I 
may stand his honour’s brother in some stead, sup- 
posing things fall roughly out at the Kirk of Saint 
Mary’s.” 

“ Thou art but a cogging knave,” said Sir Halbert, 
“ and well I wot, that love of ale and brandy, be- 
sides the humour of riot and frolic, would draw thee 
a mile, when love of my house would not bring thee 
a yard. But, go to — carry thy roisterers elsewhere 
— to the alehouse if they list, and there are crowns 
to pay your charges — make out the day’s madness 
without doing more mischief, and be wise men to- 
morrow — and hereafter learn to serve a good cause 
better than by acting like buffoons or ruffians.” 

Obedient to his master’s mandate, the falconer 
was collecting his discouraged followers, and whis- 
pering into their ears — “ Away, away — tace is 
Latin for a candle — never mind the good Knight’s 
Puritanism — we will play the frolic out over a 
stand of double ale in Dame Martin the Brewster’s 
barnyard — draw off, harp and tabor — bagpipe and 
drum — mum till you are out of the churchyard, 
then let the welkin ring again — move on, wolf and 
bear — keep the hind legs till you cross the kirk- 
stile, and then show yourselves beasts of mettle — 
what devil sent him here to spoil our holiday ! — 
but anger him not, my hearts ; his lance is no goose- 
feather, as Dan’s ribs can tell.” 

“ By my soul,” said Dan, “ had it been another 
than my ancient comrade, I would have made my 
father’s old fox ^ fly about his ears ! ” 

“Hush! hush! man,” replied Adam Woodcock, 
^ FoXf an old-fashioned broadsword was often so called. 


THE ABBOT. 


196 

“ not a word that way, as you value the safety of 
your bones — what, man ! we must take a clink as 
it passes, so it is not bestowed in downright ill-will.” 

‘‘ But I will take no such thing,” said Dan of the 
Howlet-hirst, sullenly resisting the efforts of Wood- 
cock, who was dragging him out of the church; 
when, the quick military eye of Sir Halbert Glen- 
dinning detecting Eoland Grseme betwixt his two 
guards, the Knight exclaimed, So ho ! falconer, — 
Woodcock, — knave, hast thou brought my Lady’s 
page in mine own livery, to assist at this hopeful revel 
of thine, with your wolves and bears ? Since you 
were at such mummings, you might, if you would, 
have at least saved the credit of my household, by 
dressing him up as a -jackanapes — bring him hither, 
fellows ! ” 

Adam Woodcock was too honest and downright, 
to permit blame to light upon the youth, when it 
was undeserved. “I swear,” he said, “by Saint 
Martin of Bullions ” ^ 

“ And what hast thou to do with Saint Martin ? ” 

“ Nay, little enough, sir, unless when he sends 
such rainy days that we cannot fly a hawk — but I 
say to your worshipful knighthood, that as I am a 
true man ” 

“ As you are a false varlet, had been the better 
obtestation.” 

“Nay, if your knighthood allows me not to speak,” 
said Adam, “ I can hold my tongue — but the boy 
came not hither by my bidding, for all that.” 

“ But to gratify his own malapert pleasure, I war- 
rant me,” said Sir Halbert Glendinning — “ Come 
hither, young springald, and tell me whether you 

1 The Saint Swithin, or weeping Saint of Scotland. If his fes- 
tival (fourth July) prove wet, forty days of rain are expected. 


THE ABBOT. 


197 


have your mistress’s license to be so far absent from 
the castle, or to dishonour my livery by mingling in 
such a May-game ? ” 

“ Sir Halbert Glendinning,” answered Eoland 
Graeme, with steadiness, “ I have obtained the per- 
mission, or rather the commands, of your lady, to 
dispose of my time hereafter according to my own 
pleasure. I have been a most unwilling spectator 
of this May-game, since it is your pleasure so to 
call it ; and I only wear your livery until I can ob- 
tain clothes which bear no such badge of servitude.” 

“ How am I to understand this, young man ? ” 
said Sir Halbert Glendinning ; “ speak plainly, for 
I am no reader of riddles. — That my lady favoured 
thee, I know. What hast thou done to disoblige 
her, and occasion thy dismissal ? ” 

“ Nothing to speak of,” said Adam Woodcock, an- 
swering for the boy — a foolish quarrel with me, 
which was more foolishly told over again to my 
honoured lady, cost the poor boy his place. For 
my part, I will say freely, that I was wrong from 
beginning to end, except about the washing of the 
eyas’s meat. There I stand to it that I was right.” 

With that, the good-natured falconer repeated to 
his master the whole history of the squabble which 
had brought Eoland Graeme into disgrace with his 
mistress, but in a manner so favourable for the page, 
that Sir Halbert could not but suspect his generous 
motive. 

“ Thou art a good-natured fellow,” he said, “Adam 
Woodcock.” 

“ As ever had falcon upon fist,” said Adam ; “ and, 
for that matter, so is Master Eoland ; but, being half 
a gentleman by his ofiBce, his blood is soon up, and 
so is mine.” 


198 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Well,” said Sir Halbert, “ be it as it will, my 
lady has acted hastily, for this was no great matter 
of offence to discard the lad whom she had trained 
up for years ; but he, I doubt not, made it worse 
by his prating — it jumps well with a purpose, 
however, which I had in my mind. Draw off 
these people. Woodcock, — and you, Koland Graeme, 
attend me.” 

The page followed him in silence into the Abbot’s 
house, where, stepping into the first apartment which 
he found open, he commanded one of his attendants 
to let his brother. Master Edward Glendinning, 
know that he desired to speak with him. The 
men-at-arms went gladly off to join their comrade, 
Adam Woodcock, and the jolly crew whom he had 
assembled at Dame Martin’s, the hostler’s wife, and 
the page and knight were left alone in the apartment. 
Sir Halbert Glendinning paced the floor for a moment 
in silence, and then thus addressed his attendant — 

“ Thou mayest have remarked, stripling, that I 
have but seldom distinguished thee by much notice ; 
— I see thy colour rises, but do not speak till thou 
hearest me out. I say, I have never much distin- 
guished thee, not because I did not see that in thee 
which I might well have praised, but because I saw 
something blameable, which such praises might have 
made worse. Thy mistress, dealing according to 
her pleasure in her own household, as no one hath 
better reason or title, had picked thee from the rest, 
and treated thee more like a relation than a domes- 
tic ; and if thou didst show some vanity and petu- 
lance under such distinction, it were injustice not 
to say that thou hast profited both in thy exercises 
and in thy breeding, and hast shown many sparkles 
of a gentle and manly spirit. Moreover, it were 


THE ABBOT. 


199 


ungenerous, having bred thee up freakish and fiery, 
to dismiss thee to want or wandering, for showing 
that very peevishness and impatience of discipline 
which arose from thy too delicate nurture. There- 
fore, and for the credit of my own household, I am 
determined to retain thee in my train, until I can 
honourably dispose of thee elsewhere, with a fair 
prospect of thy going through the world with credit 
to the house that brought thee up.” 

If there was something in Sir Halbert Glendin- 
ning’s speech which flattered Eoland’s pride, there 
was also much that, according to his mode of think- 
ing, was an alloy to the compliment. And yet his 
conscience instantly told him that he ought to accept, 
with grateful deference, the offer which was made 
him by the hus]3and of his kind protectress ; and 
his prudence, however slender, could not but admit 
he should enter the world under very different au- 
spices as a retainer of Sir Halbert Glendinning, so 
famed for wisdom, courage, and influence, from those 
under which he might partake the wanderings, and 
become an agent in the visionary schemes, for such 
they appeared to him, of Magdalen, his relative. 
Still, a strong reluctance to re-enter a service from 
which he had been dismissed with contempt, almost 
counterbalanced these considerations. 

Sir Halbert looked on the youth with surprise, 
and resumed — “ You seem to hesitate, young man. 
Are your own prospects so inviting, that you should 
pause ere you accept those which I offer to you ? 
or, must I remind you that, although you have 
offended your benefactress, even to the point of her 
dismissing you, yet I am convinced, the knowledge 
that you have gone unguided on your old wild way, 
into a world so disturbed as ours of Scotland, cam 


200 


THE ABBOT. 


not, in the upshot, but give her sorrow and pain ; 
from which it is, in gratitude, your duty to preserve 
her, no less than it is in common wisdom your duty 
to accept my offered protection, for your own sake, 
where body and soul are alike endangered, should 
you refuse iV* 

Eoland Graeme replied in a respectful tone, but 
at the same time with some spirit, “ I am not un- 
grateful for such countenance as has been afforded me 
by the Lord of Avenel, and I am glad to learn, for 
the first time, that I have not had the misfortune 
to be utterly beneath his observation, as I had thought 
— Audit is only needful to show me how I can testify 
my duty and my gratitude towards my early and con- 
stant benefactress with my life’s hazard, and I will 
gladly peril it.” He stopped. 

“These are but words, young man,” answered 
Glendinning; “large protestations are often used 
to supply the place of effectual service. I know 
nothing in which the peril of your life can serve the 
Lady of Avenel ; I can only say, she will be pleased 
to learn you have adopted some course which may 
ensure the safety of your person, and the weal of 
your soul — What ails you, that you accept not that 
safety when it is offered you ? ” 

“ My only relative who is alive,” answered Eoland, 
“ at least the only relative whom I have ever seen, 
has rejoined me since I was dismissed from the 
Castle of Avenel, and I must consult with her 
whether I can adopt the line to which you now call 
me, or whether her increasing infirmities, or the 
authority which she is entitled to exercise over me, 
may not require me to abide with her.” 

“Where is this relation?” said Sir Halbert 
Glendinning. 


THE ABBOT. 


201 


“ In this house,” answered the page. 

“ Go, then, and seek her out,” said the Knight of 
Avenel ; “ more than meet it is that thou shouldst 
have her approbation, yet worse than foolish would 
she show herself in denying it.” 

Eoland left the apartment to seek for his grand- 
mother ; and, as he retreated, the Abbot entered. 

The two brothers met as brothers who love each 
other fondly, yet meet rarely together. Such indeed 
was the case. Their mutual affection attached. them 
to each other ; but in every pursuit, habit, or senti- 
ment, connected with the discords of the times, the 
friend and counsellor of Murray stood opposed to the 
Eoman Catholic priest ; nor, indeed, could they have 
held very much society together, without giving 
cause of offence and suspicion to their confederates 
on each side. After a close embrace on the part of 
both, and a welcome on that of the Abbot, Sir Hal- 
bert Glendinning expressed his satisfaction that 
he had come in time to appease the riot raised by 
Howleglas and his tumultuous followers. 

“ And yet,” he said, “ when I look on your gar- 
ments, brother Edward, I cannot help thinking there 
still remains an Abbot of Unreason within the 
bounds of the Monastery.” 

“And wherefore carp at my garments, brother 
Halbert ? ” said the Abbot ; “ it is the spiritual 
armour of my calling, and, as such, beseems me as 
well as breastplate and baldric become your own 
bosom.” 

“Ay, hut there were small wisdom, methinks, 
in putting on armour where we have no power to 
fight ; it is but a dangerous temerity to defy the foe 
whom we cannot resist.” 

“ For that, my brother, no one can answer,” said 


202 


THE ABBOT. 


the Abbot, “ until the battle be fought ; and, were 
it even as you say, methinks a brave man, though 
desperate of victory, would rather desire to fight 
and fall, than to resign sword and shield on some 
mean and dishonourable composition with his insult- 
ing antagonist. But let us not, dear Halbert, make 
discord of a theme on which we cannot agree, but 
rather stay and partake, though a heretic, of my 
admission feast. You need not fear, my brother, 
that your zeal for restoring the primitive discipline 
of the church will, on this occasion, be offended with 
the rich profusion of a conventual banquet. The 
days of our old friend Abbot Boniface are over ; 
and the Superior of Saint Mary’s has neither forests 
nor fishings, woods nor pastures, nor cornfields ; 
— neither flocks nor herds, bucks nor wild-fowl — 
granaries of wheat, nor storehouses of oil and wine, 
of ale and of mead. The refectioner’s office is ended ; 
and such a meal as a hermit in romance can 
offer to a wandering knight, is all we have to set 
before you. But, if you will share it with us, we 
shall eat it with a cheerful heart, and thank you, 
my brother, for your timely protection against these 
rude scoffers.” 

“ My dearest Edward,” said the Knight, “ it 
grieves me deeply I cannot abide with you ; but it 
would sound ill for us both were one of the reformed 
congregation to sit down at your admission feast ; 
and, if I can ever have the satisfaction of affording 
you effectual protection, it will be much owing to 
my remaining unsuspected of countenancing or 
approving your religious rites and ceremonies. It 
will demand whatever consideration I can acquire 
among my own friends, to shelter the bold man, 
who, contrary to law and the edicts of parliament, 


THE ABBOT. 


263 


has dared to take up the office of Abbot of Saint 
Mary’s.” 

“ Trouble not yourself with the task, my brother,” 
replied Father Ambrosius. “ I would lay down my 
dearest blood to know that you defended the church 
for the church’s sake ; but, while you remain unhap- 
pily her enemy, I would not that you endangered 
your own safety, or diminished your own comforts, 
for the sake of my individual protection. — But 
who comes hither to disturb the few minutes of frater- 
nal communication which our evil fate allows us ?” 

The door of the apartment opened as the Abbot 
spoke, and Dame Magdalen entered. 

“ Who is this woman ? ” said Sir Halbert Glen- 
dinning, somewhat sternly, “and what does she 
want ? ” 

“ That you know me not,” said the matron, “ sig- 
nifies little ; I come by your own order, to give my 
free consent that the stripling, Eoland Graeme, re- 
turn to your service ; and, having said so, I cum 
her you no longer with my presence. Peace be with 
you ! ” She turned to go away, but was stopped by 
the enquiries of Sir Halbert Glendinning. 

“ Who are you ? — what are you ? — and why do 
you not await to make me answer ? ” 

“ I was,” she replied, “ while yet I belonged to 
the world, a matron of no vulgar name ; now, I am 
Magdalen, a poor pilgrimer, for the sake of Holy 
Kirk.” 

“ Yea,” said Sir Halbert, “ art thou a Catholic ? 
I thought my dame said that Eoland Graeme came 
of reformed kin.” 

“ His father,” said the matron, ** was a heretic, 
or rather one who regarded neither orthodoxy nor 
heresy — neither the temple of the church or of an- 


204 


THE ABBOT. 


tichrist. I, too — for the sins of the times make 
sinners — have seemed to conform to your unhal- 
lowed rites — but I had my dispensation and my 
absolution.” 

“ You see, brother,” said Sir Halbert, with a 
smile of meaning towards the Abbot, “ that we ac- 
cuse you not altogether without grounds, of mental 
equivocation.” 

“My brother, you do us injustice,” replied the 
Abbot ; “ this woman, as her bearing may of itself 
warrant you, is not in her perfect mind. Thanks, 
I must needs say, to the persecution of your ma- 
rauding barons, and of your latitudinarian clergy.” 

“ I will not dispute the point,” said Sir Halbert ; 
“ the evils of the time are unhappily so numerous, 
that both churches may divide them, and have enow 
to spare.” So saying, he leaned from the window 
of the apartment, and winded his bugle. 

“Why do you sound your horn, my brother?” 
said the Abbot ; “ we have spent but few minutes 
together.” 

“ Alas ! ” said the elder brother, “ and even these 
few have been sullied by disagreement. I sound to 
horse, my brother — the rather that, to avert the 
consequences of this day’s rashness on your part, re- 
quires hasty efforts on mine. — Dame, you will oblige 
me by letting your young relative know that we 
mount instantly. I intend not that he shall return 
to Avenel with me — it would lead to new quarrels 
betwixt him and my household ; at least, to taunts 
which his proud heart could ill brook, and my wish 
is to do him kindness. He shall, therefore, go for- 
ward to Edinburgh with one of my retinue, whom 
I shall send back to say what has chanced here. 
— You seem rejoiced at this ?” he added, fixing his 


THE ABBOT. 


205 


eyes keenly on Magdalen Graeme, who returned his 
gaze with calm indifference. 

“ I would rather,” she said, “ that Eoland, a poor 
and friendless orphan, were the jest of the world at 
large, than of the menials at Avenel.” 

“Fear not, dame — he shall be scorned by nei- 
ther,” answered the Knight. 

“ It may be,” she replied — “ It may well be — 
but I will trust more to his own bearing than to 
your countenance.” She left the room as she spoke. 

The Knight looked after her as she departed, but 
turned instantly to his brother, and expressing, in 
the most affectionate terms, his wishes for his wel- 
fare and happiness, craved his leave to depart. 
“ My knaves,” he said, “ are too busy at the ale- 
stand, to leave their revelry for the empty breath 
of a bugle horn.” 

“You have freed them from higher restraint. 
Halbert,” answered the Abbot, “ and therein taught 
them to rebel against your own.” 

“ Fear not that, Edward,” exclaimed Halbert, 
who never gave his brother his monastic name of 
Ambrosius ; “ none obey the command of real duty 
so well as those who are free from the observance 
of slavish bondage.” 

He was turning to depart, when the Abbot said, 
— “ Let us not yet part, my brother — here comes 
some light refreshment. Leave not the house which 
I must now call mine, till force expel me from it, 
until you have at least broken bread with me.” 

The poor lay brother, the same who acted as 
porter, now entered the apartment, bearing some 
simple refreshment, and a flask of wine. “ He had 
found it,” he said with officious humility, “ by rum- 
maging through every nook of the cellar.” 


THE ABBOT. 


206 

The Knight filled a small silver cup, and, quaff- 
ing it off, asked his brother to pledge him, observing 
the wine was Bacharac, of the first vintage, and 
great age. 

“ Ay,” said the poor lay brother, “ it came out of 
the nook which old Brother Nicholas, (may his soul 
be happy ! ) was wont to call Abbot Ingelram’s cor- 
ner ; and Abbot Ingelram was bred at the Convent 
of Wurtzburg, which I understand to be near where 
that choice wine grows.” 

“ True, my reverend sir,” said Sir Halbert ; “and 
therefore I entreat my brother and you to pledge 
me in a cup of this orthodox vintage.” 

The thin old porter looked with a wishful glance 
towards the Abbot. “Do veniam!' said his Su- 
perior ; and the old man seized, with a trembling 
hand, a beverage to which he had been long unac- 
customed, drained the cup with protracted delight, 
as if dwelling on the flavour and perfume, and set 
it down with a melancholy smile and shake of the 
head, as if bidding adieu in future to such delicious 
potations. The brothers smiled. But when Sir 
Halbert motioned to the Abbot to take up his cup 
and do him reason, the Abbot, in turn, shook his 
head, and replied — “ This is no day for the Abbot 
of Saint Mary’s to eat the fat and drink the sweet. 
In water from Our Lady’s well,” he added, filling a 
cup with the limpid element, “ I wish you, my bro- 
ther, all happiness, and, above all, a true sight of 
your spiritual errors.” 

“And to you, my beloved Edward,” replied 
Glendinning, “ I wish the free exercise of your own 
free reason, and the discharge of more important 
duties than are connected with the idle name which 
you have so rashly assumed.” 


THE ABBOT. 


207 


The brothers parted with deep regret; and yet 
each, confident in his opinion, felt somewhat relieved 
by the absence of one whom he respected so much, 
and with whom he could agree so little. 

Soon afterwards the sound of the Knight of Ave- 
nel’s trumpets was heard, and the Abbot went to 
the top of a tower, from whose dismantled battle- 
ments he could soon see the horsemen ascending the 
rising ground in the direction of the drawbridge. 
As he gazed, Magdalen Graeme came to his side. 

“Thou art come,” he said, “to catch the last 
glimpse of thy grandson, my sister. Yonder he 
wends, under the charge of the best knight in Scot- 
land, his faith ever excepted.” 

“ Thou canst bear witness, my father, that it was 
no wish either of mine or of Roland’s,” replied the 
matron, “ which induced the Knight of Avenel, as 
he is called, again to entertain my grandson in his 
household — Heaven, which confounds the wise with 
their own wisdom, and the wicked with their own 
policy, hath placed him where, for the service of the 
Church, I would most wish him to be.” 

“ I know not what you mean, my sister,” said the 
Abbot. 

“ Reverend father,” replied Magdalen, “ hast 
thou never heard that there are spirits powerful to 
rend the walls of a castle asunder when once ad- 
mitted, which yet cannot enter the house unless 
they are invited, nay, dragged over the threshold ? ^ 
Twice hath Roland Graeme been thus drawn into 
the household of Avenel by those who now hold the 
title. Let them look to the issue.” 

So saying, she left the turret ; and the Abbot, 

1 Note VIII. — Inability of Evil Spirits to Enter a House Un- 
invited. 


2o8 


THE ABBOT. 


after pausing a moment on her words, which he im- 
puted to the unsettled state of her mind, followed 
down the winding stair to celebrate his admission 
to his high office by fast and prayer, instead of rev- 
elling and thanksgiving. 


CHAPTER XVL 


Youth ! thou wear’st to manhood now. 

Darker lip and darker brow, 

Statelier step, more pensive mien, 

In thy face and gait are seen : 

Thou must now brook midnight watcher 
Take thy food and sport by snatches ! 

For the gambol and the jest, 

Thou wert wont to love the best, 

Graver follies must thou follow, 

But as senseless, false, and hollow. 

LifSt a Poem. 

Young Eoland Graeme now trotted gaily for- 
ward in the train of Sir Halbert Glendinning. He 
was relieved from his most galling apprehension, — 
the encounter of the scorn and taunt which might 
possibly hail his immediate return to the Castle 
of Avenel. “There will he a change ere they see 
me again,” he thought to himself ; “ I shall wear the 
coat of plate, instead of the green jerkin, and the 
steel morion for^the bonnet and feather. They will 
he bold that may venture to break a gibe on the 
man-at-arms for the follies of the page ; and I trust, 
that ere we return I shall have done something more 
worthy of note than hallooing a hound after a deer, 
or scrambling a crag for a kite’s nest.” He could 
not, indeed, help marvelling that his grandmother, 
with all her religious prejudices, leaning, it would 
seem, to the other side, had consented so readily to 

VOL. I. — 14 


210 


THE ABBOT. 


his re-entering the service of the House of Avenel ; 
and yet more at the mysterious joy with which she 
took leave of him at the Abbey. 

“ Heaven,” said the dame, as she kissed her young 
relation, and bade him farewell, “works its own 
work, even by the hands of those of our enemies 
who think themselves the strongest and the wisest. 
Thou, my child, be ready to act upon the call of thy 
religion and country ; and remember, each earthly 
bond which thou canst form is, compared to the ties 
which bind thee to them, like the loose flax to the 
twisted cable. — Thou hast not forgot the face or 
form of the damsel Catherine Seyton ? ” 

Koland would have replied in the negative, but 
the word seemed to stick in his throat, and Mag- 
dalen continued her exhortations. 

“ Thou must not forget her, my son ; and here 
I intrust thee with a token, which I trust thou wilt 
speedily find an opportunity of delivering with care 
and secrecy into her own hand.” 

She put here into Boland’s hand a very small 
packet, of which she again enjoined him to take the 
strictest care, and to suffer it to be seen by no one 
save Catherine Seyton, who, she again (very un- 
necessarily) reminded him, was the young maiden 
he had met on the preceding day. She then be- 
stowed on him her solemn benediction, and bade 
God speed him. 

There was something in her manner and her con- 
duct which implied mystery ; but Boland Graeme 
was not of an age or temper to waste much time in 
endeavouring to decipher her meaning. All that 
was obvious to his perception in the present jour- 
ney, promised pleasure and novelty. He rejoiced 
that he was travelling towards Edinburgh, in order 


THE ABBOT. 


21 1 

to assume the character of a man, and lay aside that 
of a boy. He was delighted to think that he would 
have an opportunity of rejoining Catherine Seyton, 
whose bright eyes and lively’ manners had made' so 
favourable an impression on his imagination ; and, 
as an inexperienced, yet high-spirited youth, enter 
ing for the first time upon active life, his heart 
bounded at the thought, that he was about to see 
all those scenes of courtly splendour and warlike 
adventures, of which the followers of Sir Halbert 
used to boast on their occasional visits to Avenel, 
to the wonderment and envy of those who, like Eo- 
land, knew courts and camps only by hearsay, and 
were condemned to the solitary sports and almost 
monastic seclusion of Avenel, surrounded by its 
lonely lake, and embosomed among its pathless 
mountains. “ They shall mention my name,” he 
said to himself, “ if the risk of my life can purchase 
me opportunities of distinction, and Catherine Sey- 
ton’s saucy eye shall rest with more respect on the 
distinguished soldier, than that with which she 
laughed to scorn the raw and inexperienced page.” 
— There was wanting but one accessary to complete 
the sense of rapturous excitation, and he possessed it 
by being once more mounted on the back of a fiery 
and active horse, instead of plodding along on foot, 
as had been the case during the preceding days. 

Impelled by the liveliness of his own spirits, 
which so many circumstances tended naturally to 
exalt, Koland Graeme’s voice and his laughter were 
soon distinguished amid the trampling of the horses 
of the retinue, and more than once attracted the 
attention of their leader, who remarked with satis- 
faction, that the youth replied with good-humoured 
raillery to such of the train as jested with him 


212 


THE ABBOT. 


on his dismissal and return to the service of the 
House of Avenel. 

“ I thought the holly-branch in your bonnet had 
been blighted, Master Eoland ? ” saii one of the 
men-at-arms. 

“ Only pinched with half an hour’s frost ; you see 
it flourishes as green as ever.” 

“ It is too grave a plant to flourish on so hot a 
soil as that head-piece of thine, Master Eoland 
Grseme,” retorted the other, who was an old equerry 
of Sir Halbert Glendinning. 

“ If it will not flourish alone,” said Eoland, “ I 
will mix it with the laurel and the myrtle — and I 
will carry them so near the sky, that it shall make 
amends for their stinted growth.” 

Thus speaking, he dashed his spurs into his horse’s 
sides, and, checking him at the same time, com- 
pelled him to execute a lofty caracole. Sir Halbert 
Glendinning looked at the demeanour of his new 
attendant with that sort of melancholy pleasure with 
which those who have long followed the pursuits of 
life, and are sensible of their vanity, regard the gay, 
young, and buoyant spirits to whom existence, as 
yet, is only hope and promise. 

In the meanwhile, Adam Woodcock, the fal- 
coner, stripped of his masquing habit, and attired, 
according to his rank and calling, in a green jerkin, 
with a hawking-bag on the one side, and a short 
hanger on the other, a glove on his left hand which 
reached half way up his arm, and a bonnet and fea- 
ther upon his head, came after the party as fast as 
his active little galloway-nag could trot, and imme- 
diately entered into parley with Eoland Graeme. 

“So, my youngster, you are once more under 
shadow of the holly-branch?” 


THE ABBOT. 


213 


“ And in case to repay you, my good friend,” an- 
swered Eoland, “ your ten groats of silver.” 

“Which, but an hour since,” said the falconer, 
“ you had nearly paid me with ten inches of steel. 
On my faith, it is written in the book of our des- 
tiny, that I must brook your dagger, after all.” 

“ Nay, speak not of that, my good friend,” said 
the youth, “ I would rather have broached my own 
bosom than yours ; but who could have known you 
in the mumming dress you wore ? ” 

“ Yes,” the falconer resumed, — for both as a poet 
and actor he had his own professional share of self- 
conceit, — “I think I was as good an Howleglas as 
ever played part at a Shrovetide revelry, and not a 
much worse Abbot of Unreason.” I defy the Old 
Enemy to unmasque me when I choose to keep my 
vizard on. What the devil brought the Knight on 
us before we had the game out ? You would have 
heard me hollo my own new ballad with a voice 
should have reached to Berwick. But I pray you. 
Master Eoland, be less free of cold steel on slight 
occasions ; since, but for the stuffing of my reverend 
doublet, I had only left the kirk to take my place 
in the kirkyard.” 

“Nay, spare me that feud,” said Eoland Graeme, 
“ we shall have no time to fight it out ; for, by our 
lord’s command, I am bound for Edinburgh.” 

“ I know it,” said Adam Woodcock, “ and even 
therefore wc shall have time to solder up this rent 
by the way, for Sir Halbert has appointed me your 
companion and guide.” 

“ Ay ? and with what purpose ? ” said the page. 

“That,” said the falconer, “is a question I cannot 
answer ; but. I know, that be the food of the eyasses 
washed or unwashed, and, indeed, whatever becomes 


214 


THE ABBOT. 


of perch and mew, I am to go with you to Edin- 
burgh, and see you safely delivered to the Eegent at 
Holyrood.” 

“ How, to the Regent ? ” said Roland, in surprise. 

“ Ay, by my faith, to the Regent,” replied W ood- 
cock ; " I promise you, that if you are not to enter 
his service, at least you are to wait upon him in the 
character of a retainer of our Knight of Avenel.” 

“ I know no right,” said the youth, “ which the 
Knight of Avenel hath to transfer my service, sup- 
posing that I owe it to himself.” 

“ Hush, hush ! ” said the falconer ; that is a 
question I advise no one to stir in until he has the 
mountain or the lake, or the march of another king- 
dom, which is better than either, betwixt him and 
his feudal superior.” 

“ But Sir Halbert Glendinning,” said the youth, 
“ is not my feudal superior ; nor has he aught of 
authority ” 

“ I pray you, my son, to rein your tongue,” an- 
swered Adam Woodcock; “my lord’s displeasure, if 
you provoke it, will be worse to appease than my 
lady’s. The touch of his least finger were heavier 
than her hardest blow. And, by my faith, he is a 
man of steel, as true and as pure, but as hard and 
as pitiless. You remember the Cock of Capperlaw, 
whom he hanged over his gate for a mere mistake 

— a poor yoke of oxen taken in Scotland, when he 
thought he was taking them in English land ? I 
loved the Cock of Capperlaw ; the Kerrs had not 
an honester man in their clan, and they have had 
men that might have been a pattern to the Border 

— men that would not have lifted under twenty 
cows at once, and would have held themselves dis- 
honoured if they had taken a drift of sheep or the 


THE ABBOT. 


215 


like, but always managed their raids in full credit 
and honour. — But see, his worship halts, and we 
are close by the bridge. Bide up — ride up — we 
must have his last instructions.” 

It was as Adam Woodcock said. In the hollow 
way descending towards the bridge, which was still 
in the guardianship of Peter Bridgeward, as he was 
called, though he was now very old. Sir Halbert 
Glendinning halted his retinue, and beckoned to 
Woodcock and Graeme to advance to the head of 
the train. 

“ Woodcock,” said he, “ thou knowest to whom 
thou art to conduct this youth. And thou, young 
man, obey discreetly and with diligence the orders 
that shall be given thee. Curb thy vain and peev- 
ish temper. Be just, true, and faithful ; and there 
is in thee that which may raise thee many a de- 
gree above thy present station. Neither shalt thou 
— always supposing thine efforts to be fair and 
honest — want the protection and countenance of 
Avenel.” 

Leaving them in front of the bridge, the centre 
tower of which now began to cast a prolonged shade 
upon the river, the Knight of Avenel turned to the 
left, without crossing the river, and pursued his way 
towards the chain of hills within whose recesses are 
situated the Lake and Castle of Avenel. There re- 
mained behind, the falconer, Boland Graeme, and a 
domestic of the Knight, of inferior rank, who was 
left with them to look after their horses while on 
the road, to carry their baggage, and to attend to 
their convenience. 

So soon as the more numerous body of riders had 
turned, off to pursue their journey westward, those 
whose route lay across the river, and was directed 


2I6 


THE ABBOT. 


towards the north, summoned the Bridgeward, and 
demanded a free passage. 

“ I will not lower the bridge,” answered Peter, in 
a voice querulous with age and ill-humour. — “ Come 
Papist, come Protestant, ye are all the same. The 
Papists threatened us with Purgatory, and fleeched 
us with pardons ; — The Protestant mints at us with 
the sword, and cuittles us with the liberty of con- 
science ; but never a one of either says, ‘ Peter, there 
is your penny.’ I am well tired of all this, and for 
no man shall the bridge fall that pays me not ready 
money ; and I would have you know I care as little 
for Geneva as for Pome — as little for homilies as 
for pardons; and the silver pennies are the only 
passports I will hear of.” 

“Here is a proper old chuff!” said Woodcock to 
his companion ; then raising his voice, he exclaimed, 
**Hark thee, dog — Bridgeward, villain, dost thou 
think we have refused thy namesake Peter’s pence 
to Kome, to pay thine at the Bridge of Kennaquhair? 
Let thy bridge down instantly to the followers of the 
house of Avenel, or by the hand of my father, and 
that handled many a bridle rein, for he was a bluff 
Yorksliireman — I say, by my father’s hand, our 
Knight will blow thee out of thy solan-goose’s nest 
there in the middle of the water, with the light 
falconet which we are bringing southward from 
Edinburgh to-morrow.” 

The Bridgeward heard, and muttered, “ A plague 
on falcon and falconet, on cannon and demi-cannon, 
and all the barking bull-dogs whom they halloo 
against stone and lime in these our days I It was 
a merry time when there was little besides handy 
blows, and it may be a flight of arrows that harmed 
an ashler wall as little as so many hailstones. But 


THE ABBOT. 


217 


we must jouk, and let the jaw gang by.” Comforting 
himself in his state of diminished consequence with 
this pithy old proverb, Peter Bridgeward lowered 
the drawbridge, and permitted them to pass over. 
At the sight of his white hair, albeit it discovered a 
visage equally peevish through age and misfortune, 
Poland was inclined to give him an alms, but Adam 
Woodcock prevented him. “E’en let him pay the 
penalty of his former churlishness and greed,” he 
said ; “ the wolf, when he has lost his teeth, should 
be treated no better than a cur.’* 

Leaving the Bridgeward to lament the alteration 
of times, which sent domineering soldiers, and feudal 
retainers, to his place of passage, instead of peaceful 
pilgrims, and reduced him to become the oppressed, 
instead of playing the extortioner, the travellers 
turned them northward; and Adam Woodcock, well 
acquainted with that part of the country, proposed 
to cut short a considerable portion of the road, by 
traversing the little vale of Glendearg, so famous for 
the adventures which befell therein during the ear- 
lier part of the Benedictine’s manuscript. With 
these, and with the thousand commentaries, repre- 
sentations, and misrepresentations, to which they 
had given rise, Boland Graeme was, of course, well 
acquainted ; for in the Castle of Avenel, as well as 
in other great establishments, the inmates talked of 
nothing so often, or with such pleasure, as of the pri- 
vate affairs of their lord and lady. But while Bo- 
land was viewing with interest these haunted scenes, 
in which things were said to have passed beyond the 
ordinary laws of nature, Adam Woodcock was still 
regretting in his secret soul the unfinished revel and 
the unsung ballad, and kept every now and then 
breaking out with some such verses as these : — 


THE ABBOT. 


218 


The Friars of Fail drank berry-brown ale, 

The best that e’er was tasted ; 

The Monks of Melrose made gude kale 
On Fridays, when they fasted. 

Saint Monance’ sister, 

The grey priest kist her — 

, Fiend save the company! 

Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix. 

Under the greenwood tree I ” 

*‘Bymy hand, friend Woodcock,” said the page^ 
“ though I know you for a hardy gospeller, that fear 
neither saint nor devil, yet, if I were you, I would not 
sing your profane songs in this valley of Glendearg, 
considering what has happened here before our time.” 

“ A straw for your wandering spirits ! ” said Adam 
Woodcock; *‘1 mind them no more than an earn 
cares for a string of wild-geese — they have all fled 
since the pulpits were fillecj with honest men, and 
the people’s ears with sound doctrine. Nay, I have 
a touch at them in my ballad, an I had hut had the 
good luck to have sung it to end ; ” and again he set 
off in the same key : 

“ From haunted spring and grassy ring, 

Troop goblin, elf, and fairy ; 

And the kelpie must flit from the black bog-pit, 

And the brownie must not tarry ; 

To Limbo-lake, 

Their way they take. 

With scarce the pith to flee. 

Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix, 

Under the greenwood tree! 

I think,” he added, “ that could Sir Halhert*s pa- 
tience have stretched till we came that length, he 
would have had a hearty laugh, and that is what he 
seldom enjoys.” 

If it be all true that men tell of his early life,” 


THE ABBOT. 


219 

said Eoland, he has less right to laugh at goblins 
than most men.” 

“Ay, if it be all true,” answered Adam Woodcock; 
“ hut who can ensure us of that ? Moreover, these 
were but tales the monks used to gull us simple lay- 
men withal ; they knew that fairies and hobgoblins 
brought aves and paternosters into repute ; but, now 
we have given up worship of images in wood and 
stone, methinks it were no time to be afraid of 
bubbles in the water, or shadows in the air.” 

“However,” said Eoland Graeme, “as the Catholics 
say they do not worship wood or stone, but only as 
emblems of the holy saints, and not as things holy 
in themselves ” 

“ Pshaw ! pshaw ! ” answered the falconer ; “ a rush 
for their prating. They told us another story when 
these baptized idols of theirs brought pike-staves and 
sandalled shoon from all the four winds, and whillied 
the old women out of their corn and their candle-ends, 
and their butter, bacon, wool, and cheese, and when 
not so much as a grey groat escaped tithing.” 

Eoland Graeme had been long taught, by necessity, 
to consider his form of religion as a profound secret, 
and to say nothing whatever in its defence when 
assailed, lest he should draw on himself the sus- 
picion of belonging to the unpopular and exploded 
church. He therefore suffered Adam Woodcock to 
triumph without farther opposition, marvelling in 
his own mind whether any of the goblins, formerly 
such active agents, would avenge his rude raillery 
before they left the valley of Glendearg. But no 
such consequences followed. They passed the night 
quietly in a cottage in the glen, and the next day 
resumed their route to Edinburgh. 


CHAPTEE XVIL 


Edina ! Scotia’s darling seat, 

All hail thy palaces and towers, 

Where once, beneath a monarch’s feet, 

Sate legislation’s sovereign powers ! 

Burns. 

"This, then, is Edinburgh?” said the youth, as 
the fellow-travellers arrived at one of the heights 
to the southward, which commanded a view of the 
great northern capital — “This is that Edinburgh 
of which we have heard so much ? ” 

“ Even so,” said the falconer ; “ yonder stands 
Auld Eeekie — you may see the smoke hover over 
her at twenty miles’ distance, as the goss-hawk hangs 
over a plump of young wild-ducks — ay, yonder is 
the heart of Scotland, and each throb that she gives 
f is felt from the edge of Solway to Duncan’s-bay 
head. See, yonder is the old Castle ; and see to the 
right, on yon rising ground, that is the Castle of 
Craigmillar, which I have known a merry place in 
my time.” 

“Was it not there,” said the page in a low voice, 
“ that the Queen held her court ? ” 

“ Ay, ay,” replied the falconer, “ Queen she was 
then, though you must not call her so now. — Well, 
they may say what they will — many a true heart 
will he sad for Mary Stewart, e’en if all be true men 
say of her ; for look you. Master Eoland — she was 
the loveliest creature to look upon that I ever saw 


THE ABBOT. 


221 


with eye, and no lady in the land liked better the 
fair flight of a falcon. I was at the great match on 
Eoslin-moor betwixt Bothwell — he was a black 
sight to her that Bothwell — and the Baron of Eos- 
lin, who could judge a hawk’s flight as well as any 
man in Scotland — a butt of Ehenish and a ring of 
gold was the wager, and it was flown as fairly for 
as ever was red gold and bright wine. And to see 
her there on her white palfrey, that flew as if it 
scorned to touch more than the heather blossom; 
and to hear her voice, as clear and sweet as the ma- 
vis’s whistle, mix among our jolly whooping and 
whistling ; and to mark all the nobles dashing round 
her ; happiest he who got a word or a look — tear- 
ing through moss and hagg, and venturing neck and 
limb to gain the praise of a bold rider, and the blink 
of a bonny Queen’s bright eye ! — she will see little 
hawking where she lies now — ay, ay, pomp and 
pleasure pass away as speedily as the wap of a 
falcon’s wing.” 

" And where is this poor Queen now confined ? ” 
said Eoland Graeme, interested in the fate of a 
waman, whose beauty and grace had made so 
strong an impression even on the blunt and careless 
character of Adam Woodcock. 

“Where is she now imprisoned?” said honest 
Adam; “why, in some castle in the north, they 
say — I know not where, for my part, nor is it worth 
while to vex one’s self anent what cannot be mended 
— An she had guided her power well whilst she had 
it, she had not come to so evil a pass. Men say she 
must resign her crown to this little baby of a prince, 
for that they will trust her with it no longer. Our 
master has been as busy as his neighbours in all this 
work. If the Queen should come to her own again, 


222 


THE ABBOT. 


Avenel Castle is like to smoke for it, unless he 
makes his bargain all the better.” 

“In a castle in the north Queen Mary is 
confined ? ” said the page. 

“ Why, ay — they say so, at least — In a castle 
beyond that great river which comes down yonder, 
and looks like a river, but it is a branch of the sea, 
and as bitter as brine.” 

“ And amongst all her subjects,” said the page, 
with some emotion, “ is there none that will adven- 
ture any thing for her relief ? ” 

“ That is a kittle question,” said the falconer ; 
“ and if you ask it often, Master Koland, I am fain 
to tell you that you will be mewed up yourself in 
some of those castles, if they do not prefer twisting 
your head off, to save farther trouble with you — 
Adventure any thing ? Lord, why, Murray has the 
wind in his poop now, man, and flies so high and 
strong, that the devil a wing of them can match 
him — No, no ; there she is, and there she must lie, 
till Heaven send her deliverance, or till her son has 
the management of all — But Murray will never let 
her loose again, he knows her too well. — And hark 
thee, we are now bound for Holyrood, where thou 
wilt find plenty of news and of courtiers to tell it 
— But, take my counsel, and keep a calm sough, as 
the Scots say — hear every man’s counsel, and keep 
your own. And if you hap to learn any news you 
like, leap not up as if you were to put on armour 
direct in the cause — Our old Mr. Wingate says — 
and he knows court-cattle well — that if you are told 
old King Coul is come alive again, you should turn 
it off with, ‘And is he, in truth ? — I heard not of 
it,* and should seem no more moved than if one 
told you, by way of novelty, that old King Coul 


THE ABBOT. 


223 


was dead and buried. Wherefore, look well to your 
bearing, Master Koland, for I promise you, you 
come among a generation that are keen as a hungry 
hawk — And never be dagger out of sheath at 
every wry word you hear spoken; for you will 
find as hot blades as yourself, and then will be 
letting of blood without advice either of leech or 
almanack.” 

“ You shall see how staid I will be and how 
cautious, my good friend,” said Graeme ; ” but, blessed 
Lady, what goodly house is that which is lying all 
in ruins so close to thQ city ? Have they been play- 
ing at the Abbot of Unreason here, and ended the 
gambol by burning the church ? ” 

“There again now,” replied his companion, “you 
go down the wind like a wild haggard, that minds 
neither lure nor beck — that is a question you should 
have asked in as low a tone as I shall answer it.” 

“If I stay here long,” said Koland Grseme, “it 
is like I shall lose the natural use of my voice — but 
what are the ruins then ? ” 

“ The Kirk of Field,” said the falconer, in a low 
and impressive whisper, laying at the same time his 
finger on his lip ; “ ask ho more about it — some- 
body got foul play, and somebody got the blame of 
it ; and the game began there which perhaps may 
not be played out in our time. — Poor Henry Darn- 
ley! to be an ass, he understood somewhat of a 
hawk ! but they sent him on the wing through the 
air himself one bright moonlight night.” 

The memory of this catastrophe was so recent, 
that the page averted his eyes with horror from the 
scathed ruins in which it had taken place ; and the 
accusations against the Queen, to which it had given 
rise, came over his mind with such strength as to 


224 


THE ABBOT. 


balance the compassion he had begun to entertain 
for her present forlorn situation. 

It was, indeed, with that agitating state of mind 
which arises partly from horror, but more from anx- 
ious interest and curiosity, that young Graeme found 
himself actually traversing the scene of those tremen- 
dous events, the report of which had disturbed the 
most distant solitudes in Scotland, like the echoes 
of distant thunder rolling among the mountains. 

“ Now,” he thought, “ now or never shall I be- 
come a man, and bear my part in those deeds which 
the simple inhabitants of our hamlets repeat to each 
other as if they were wrought by beings of a supe- 
rior order to their own ! I will know now, where- 
fore the Knight of Avenel carries his crest so much 
above those of the neighbouring baronage, and how 
it is that men, by valour and wisdom,, work their 
way from the hoddin-grey coat to the cloak of scar- 
let and gold. Men say I have not much wisdom to 
recommend me ; and if that be true, courage must 
do it ; for I will be a man amongst living men, or a 
dead corpse amongst the dead.” 

From these dreams of ambition he turned his 
thoughts to those of pleasure, and began to form 
many conjectures, when and where he should see 
Catherine Seyton, and in what manner their ac- 
quaintance was to be renewed. With such conjec- 
tures he was amusing himself, when he found that 
they had entered the city, and all other feelings 
was suspended in the sensation of giddy astonish- 
ment with which an inhabitant of the country is 
affected, when, for the first time, he finds himself 
in the streets of a large and populous city, an unit 
in the midst of thousands. 

The principal street of Edinburgh was then, as 


THE ABBOT. 


225 


now, one of the most spacious in Europe. The 
extreme height of the houses, and the variety of 
Gothic .gahles, and battlements, and balconies, by 
which the sky-line on each side was crowned and 
terminated, together with the width of the street 
itself, might have struck with surprise a more prac- 
tised eye than that of young Graeme. The popula- 
tion, close packed within the walls of the city, and 
at this time increased by the number of the lords of 
the King’s party who had thronged to Edinburgh to 
wait upon the Kegent Murray, absolutely swarmed 
like bees on the wide and stately street. Instead 
of the shop-windows, which are now calculated for 
the display of goods, the traders had their open 
booths projecting on the street, in which, as in the 
fashion of the modern bazars, all was exposed which 
they had upon sale. And though the commodities* 
were not of the richest kinds, yet Graeme thought 
he beheld the wealth of the whole world in the 
various bales of Flanders cloths, and the specimens 
of tapestry ; and, at other places, the display of do- 
mestic utensils, and pieces of plate, struck him with 
wonder. The sight of cutlers’ booths, furnished 
with swords and poniards, which were manufac- 
tured- in Scotland, and with pieces of defensive 
armour, imported from Flanders, added to his sur- 
prise ; and, at every step, he found so much to ad- 
mire and to gaze upon, that Adam Woodcock had 
no little difficulty in prevailing on him to advance 
through such a scene of enchantment. 

The sight of the crowds which filled the streets 
was equally a subject of wonder. Here a gay lady, 
in her muffler, or silken veil, traced her way deli- 
cately, a gentleman-usher making way for her, a 
page bearing up her train, and a waiting gentle- 

VOL. I. — 15 


226 


THE ABBOT. 


woman carrying her Bible, thus intimating that her 
purpose was towards the church — There he might 
see a group of citizens bending the same way, with 
their short Flemish cloaks, wide trowsers, and high- 
caped doublets ; a fashion to which, as well as to 
their bonnet and feather, the Scots were long faith- 
ful. Then, again, came the clergyman himself, in 
his black Geneva cloak and band, lending a grave 
and attentive ear to the discourse of several persons 
who accompanied him, and who were doubtless 
holding serious converse on the religious subject he 
was about to treat of. Nor did there lack pas- 
sengers of a different class and appearance. 

At every turn, Eoland Graeme might see a gal- 
lant ruffle along in the newer or French mode, his 
doublet slashed, and his points of the same colours 
with the lining, his long sword on one side, and his 
poniard on the other, behind him a body of stout 
serving-men, proportioned to his estate and quality, 
all of whom walked with the air of military retain- 
ers, and were armed with sword and buckler, the 
latter being a small round shield, not unlike the 
Highland target, having a steel spike in the centre. 
Two of these parties, each headed by a person of im- 
portance, chanced to meet in the very centre of the 
street, or, as it was called, “ the crown of the cause- 
way,” a post of honour as tenaciously asserted in 
Scotland, as that of giving or taking the wall used 
to be in the more southern part of the island. The 
two leaders being of equal rank, and, most probably, 
either animated by political dislike, or by recollec- 
tion of some feudal enmity, marched close up to 
each other, without yielding an inch to the right or 
the left ; and neither showing the least purpose of 
giving way, they stopped for an instant, and then 


THE ABBOT. 


227 


drew their swords. Their followers imitated their 
example ; about a score of weapons at once flashed 
in the sun, and there was an immediate clatter of 
swords and bucklers, while the followers on either 
side cried their master’s name ; the one shouting 
“Help, a Leslie! a Leslie!” while the others an- 
swered with shouts of “ Seyton ! Seyton ! ” with the 
additional punning slogan, “ Set on, set on — bear 
the knaves to the ground I ” 

If the falconer found difficulty in getting the 
page to go forward before, it was now perfectly 
impossible. He reined up his horse, clapped 
his hands, and, delighted with the fray, cried and 
shouted as fast as any of those who were actually 
engaged in it. 

The noise and cries thus arising on the Highgate, 
as it was called, drew into the quarrel two or three 
other parties of gentlemen and their servants, be- 
sides some single passengers, who, hearing a fray 
betwixt these two distinguished names, took part in 
it, either for love or hatred. 

The combat became now very sharp, and although 
the sword-and-buckler-men made more clatter and 
noise than they did real damage, yet several good 
cuts were dealt among them ; and those who wore 
rapiers — a more formidable weapon than the ordi- 
nary Scottish sword — gave and received dangerous 
wounds. Two men vrere already stretched on the 
causeway, and the party of Seyton began to give 
ground, being much inferior in number to the other, 
with which several of the citizens had united them- 
selves, when young Roland Graeme, beholding their 
leader, a noble gentleman, fighting bravely, and 
hard pressed with numbers, could withhold no 
longer. “ Adam Woodcock,” he said, “ an you be a 


228 


THE ABBOT. 


man, draw, and let us take part with the Seyton." 
And, without waiting a reply, or listening to the 
falconer’s earnest entreaty, that he would leave 
alone a strife in which he had no concern, the fiery 
youth sprung from his horse, drew his short sword, 
and shouting like the rest, “ A Seyton ! a Seyton ! 
Set on ! Set on ! ” thrust forward into the throng, and 
struck down one of those who was pressing hardest 
upon the gentleman whose cause he espoused. This 
sudden reinforcement gave spirit to the weaker 
party, who began to renew the combat with much 
alacrity, when four of the- magistrates of the city, 
distinguished by their velvet cloaks and gold chains, 
came up with a guard of halberdiers and citizens, 
armed with long weapons, and well accustomed to 
such service, thrust boldly forward, and compelled 
the swordsmen to separate, who immediately re- 
treated in different directions, leaving such of the 
wounded on both sides, as had been disabled in the 
fray, lying on the street. 

The falconer, who had been tearing hi^ beard for 
anger at his comrade’s rashness, now rode up to 
him with the horse which he had caught by the 
bridle, and accosted him with Master Roland — 
master goose — master madcap — will it please you 
to get on horse, and budge ? or will you remain here 
to be carried to prison, and made to answer for this 
pretty day’s work ? ” 

The page, who had begun his retreat along with 
the Seytons, just as if he had been one of their 
. natural allies, was by this unceremonious applica- 
tion made sensible that he was acting a foolish part ; 
and, obeying Adam Woodcock, with some sense of 
shame, he sprung actively on horseback, and upset- 
ting with the shoulder of the animal a city-officer, 


THE ABBOT. 


229 


who was making towards him, he began to ride 
smartly down the street, along with his companion, 
and was quickly out of the reach of the hue and 
cry. In fact, rencounters of the kind were so com- 
mon in Edinburgh at that period, that the disturb- 
ance seldom excited much attention after the affray 
was over, unless some person of consequence chanced 
to have fallen, an incident which imposed on his 
friends the duty of avenging his death on the first 
convenient opportunity. So feeble, indeed, was the 
arm of the police, that it was not unusual for such 
skirmishes >to last for hours, where the parties were 
numerous and well matched. But at this time the 
Regent, a man of great strength of character, aware 
of the mischief which usually arose from such acts 
of violence, had prevailed with the magistrates to 
keep a constant guard on foot, for preventing or 
separating such affrays as had happened in the pres- 
ent case. 

The falconer and his young companion were now 
riding down the Canongate, and had slackened their 
pace to avoid attracting attention, the rather that 
there seemed to be no appearance of pursuit. Ro- 
land hung his head as one who was conscious his 
conduct had been none of the wisest, while his com- 
panion thus addressed him. 

“ Will you be pleased to tell me one thing. Mas- 
ter Roland Graeme, and that is, whether there be a 
devil incarnate in you or no ? ” 

“Truly, Master Adam Woodcock,” answered the 
page, “ I would fain hope there is not.” 

“ Then,” said Adam, “ I would fain know by what 
other influence or instigation you are perpetually at 
one end or the other of some bloody brawl ? What, 
I pray, had you to do with these Seytons and Les- 


230 


THE ABBOT. 


lies, that you never heard the names of in your life 
before?” 

“You are out there, my friend,” said Eoland 
Graeme, “ I have my own reasons for being a friend 
to the Seytons.” 

“They must have been very secret reasons, then,” 
answered Adam Woodcock, “for I think I could 
have wagered, you had never known one of the 
name ; and I am apt to believe still that it was your 
unhallowed passion for that clashing of cold iron, 
which has as much charm for you as the clatter of 
a brass pan hath for a hive of bees, rather than any 
care either for Seyton or for Leslie, that persuaded 
you to thrust your fool’s head into a quarrel that 
nowise concerned you. But take this for a warning, 
my young master, that if you are to draw sword 
with every man who draws sword on the High-gate 
here, it will be scarce worth your while to sheathe 
bilbo again for the rest of your life, since, if I 
guess rightly, it will scarce endure on such terms 
for many hours — all which I leave to your serious 
consideration.” 

“ By my word, Adam, I honour your advice ; and 
I promise you, that I will practise by it as faithfully 
as if I were sworn apprentice to you, to the trade 
and mystery of bearing myself with all wisdom and 
safety through the new paths of life that I am about 
to be engaged in.” 

“ And therein you will do well,” said the falconer, 
“ and I do not quarrel with you, Master Eoland, for 
having a grain over much spirit, because I know one 
may bring to the hand a wild hawk, which one never 
can a dunghill hen — and so betwixt two faults you 
have the best side on’t. But besides your peculiar 
genius for quarrelling and lugging out your side 


THE ABBOT. 


231 


companion, my dear Master Eoland, you have also 
the gift of peering under every woman’s muffler and 
screen, as if you expected to find an old acquaintance. 
Though were you to spy one, I should be as much 
surprised at it, well wotting how few you have seen 
of these same wild-fowl, as I was at your taking so 
deep an interest even now in the Seyton.” 

“ Tush, man ! nonsense and folly,” answered Bo- 
land Graeme, “ I hut sought to see what eyes these 
gentle hawks have got under their hood.” 

“ Ay, but it’s a dangerous subject of enquiry,” said 
the falconer; “you had better hold out your bare 
wrist for an eagle to perch upon. — Look you. Mas- 
ter Boland, these pretty wild-geese cannot be hawked 
at without risk — they have as many divings, bolt- 
ings, and volleyings, as the most gamesome quarry 
that falcon ever flew at — And besides, every woman 
of them is manned with her husband, or her kind 
friend, or her brother, or her cousin, or her sworn 
servant at the least — But you heed me not. Master 
Boland, though I know the game so well — your 
eye is all on that pretty damsel who trips down the 
gate before us — by my certes, I will warrant her a 
blithe dancer either in reel or revel — a pair of silver 
morisco bells would become these pretty ankles as 
well as the jesses would suit the fairest Norway 
hawk.” 

“ Thou art a fool, Adam,” said the page, " and I 
care not a button about the girl or her ankles — But, 
what the foul fiend, one must look at something ! ” 

“ Very true. Master Boland Graeme,” said his 
guide, “ but let me pray you to choose your objects 
better. Look you, there is scarce a woman walks 
this High-gate with a silk screen or a pearlin 
muffler, but, as I said before, she has either gentle- 


232 


THE ABBOT. 


man-usher before her, or kinsman, or lover, or 
husband, at her elbow, or it may be a brace of stout 
fellows with sword and buckler, not so far behind 
but what they can follow close — But you heed 
me no more than a goss-hawk minds a yellow 
yoldring.” 

“ 0 yes, I do — I do mind you indeed,” said 
Eoland Gneme ; “ but hold my nag a bit — I will be 
with you in the exchange of a whistle.” So saying, 
and ere Adam Woodcock could finish the sermon 
which was dying on his tongue, Eoland Graeme, to 
the falconer’s utter astonishment, threw him the 
bridle of his jennet, jumped off horseback, and 
pursued down one of the closes or narrow lanes, 
which, opening under a vault, terminated upon the 
main-street, the very maiden to whom his friend 
had accused him of showing so much attention, and 
who had turned do‘wn the pass in question. 

“Saint Mary, Saint Magdalen, Saint Benedict, 
Saint Barnabas ! ” cried the poor falconer, when he 
found himself thus suddenly brought to a pause in 
the midst of the Canongate, and saw his young 
charge start off like a madman in quest of a damsel 
whom he had never, as Adam supposed, seen in his 
life before, — “ Saint Satan and Saint Beelzebub — 
for this would make one swear Saint and devil — 
what can have come over the lad, with a wanion ! 
And what shall I do the whilst ? — he will have his 
throat cut, the poor lad, as sure as I was born at the 
foot of Eoseberry-Topping. Could I find some one 
to hold the horses ! but they are as sharp here north - 
away as in canny Yorkshire herself, and quit bridle, 
quit titt, as we say. An I could but see one of our 
folks now, a holly-sprig were worth a gold tassel ; 
or could I but see one of the Eegent’s men — but 


THE ABBOT. 


233 


to leave tlie horses to a stranger, that I cannot — 
and to leave the place while the lad is in jeopardy, 
that I wonot.” 

We must leave the falconer, however, in the 
midst of his distress, and follow the hot-headed 
youth who was the cause of his perplexity. 

The latter part of Adam Woodcock’s sage re- 
monstrance had been in a great measure lost upon 
Eoland, for whose benefit it was intended; because, 
in one of the female forms which tripped along the 
street, muffled in a veil of striped silk, like the 
women of Brussels at this day, his eye had discerned 
something which closely resembled the exquisite 
shape and spirited bearing of Catherine Seyton. — 
During all the grave advice which the falconer was 
dinning into his ear, his eye continued intent upon 
so interesting an object of observation ; and, at 
length, as the damsel, just about to dive under one 
of the arched passages which afforded an outlet to 
the Canongate from the houses beneath, (a passage, 
graced by a projecting shield of arms, supported by 
two huge foxes of stone,) had lifted her veil for the 
purpose perhaps of descrying who the horseman was 
who for some time had eyed her so closely, young 
Eoland saw, under the shade of the silken plaid, 
enough of the bright azure eyes, fair locks, and 
blithe features, to induce him, like an inexperienced 
and rash madcap, whose wilful ways had never 
been traversed by contradiction, nor much subjected 
to consideration, to throw the bridle of* his horse 
into Adam Woodcock’s hand, and leave him to 
play the waiting gentleman, while he dashed down 
the paved court after Catherine Seyton — all as 
aforesaid. 

Women’s wits are proverbially quick, but appa- 


234 


THE ABBOT. 


rently those of Catherine suggested no better 
expedient than fairly to betake herself to speed 
of foot, in hopes of baffling the page’s vivacity, by 
getting safely lodged before he could discover where. 
But a youth of eighteen, in pursuit of a mistress, is 
not so easily outstripped. Catherine fled across a 
paved court, decorated with large formal vases of 
stone, in which yews, cypresses, and other evergreens, 
vegetated in sombre sullenness, and gave a corres- 
pondent degree of solemnity to the high and heavy 
building in front of which they were placed as 
ornaments, aspiring towards a square portion of the 
blue hemisphere, corresponding exactly in extent to 
the quadrangle in which they were stationed, and 
all around which rose huge black walls, exhibiting 
windows in rows of five stories, with heavy archi- 
traves over each, bearing armorial and religious 
devices. 

Through this court Catherine Seyton flashed like 
a hunted doe, making the best use of those pretty 
legs which had attracted the commendation even of 
the reflective and cautious Adam Woodcock. She 
hastened towards a large door in the centre of the 
lower front of the court, pulled the bobbin till the 
latch flew up, and ensconced herself in the ancient 
mansion. But, if she fled like a doe, Roland Graeme 
followed with the speed and ardour of a youthful 
stag-hound, loosed for the first time on his prey. 
He kept her in view in spite of her efforts ; for it is 
remarkable, what an advantage in such a race the 
gallant who desires to see, possesses over the maiden 
who wishes not to be seen — an advantage which 
I have known counterbalance a great start in point 
of distance.' In short, he saw the waving of her 
screen, or veil, at one corner, heard the tap of her 


THE ABBOT. 


235 


foot, light as that was, as it crossed the court, and 
caught a glimpse of her figure just as she entered 
the door of the mansion. 

Koland Graeme, inconsiderate and headlong as 
we have described him, having no knowledge of real 
life but from the romances which he had read, and 
not an idea of checking himself in the midst of any 
eager impulse ; possessed, besides, of much courage 
and readiness, never hesitated for a moment to 
approach the door through which the object of his 
search had disappeared. He, too, pulled the bobbin, 
and the latch, though heavy and massive, answered 
to the summons, and arose. The page entered 
with the same precipitation which had marked his 
whole proceeding, and found himself in a large 
gloomy hall, or vestibule, dimly enlightened by 
latticed casements of painted glass, and rendered 
yet dimmer through the exclusion of the sunbeams, 
owing to the height of the walls of those buildings 
by which the court-yard was enclosed. The walls 
of the hall were surrounded with suits of ancient 
and rusted armour, interchanged with huge and 
massive stone scutcheons, bearing double tressures, 
fieured and counter-fleured, wheat-sheaves, coronets, 
and so forth, things to which Koland Graeme gave 
not a moment’s attention. 

In fact, he only deigned to observe the figure of 
Catherine Seyton, who, deeming herself safe in the 
hall, had stopped to take breath after her course, and 
was reposing herself for a moment on a large oaken 
settle which stood at the upper end of the hall. The 
noise of Roland’s entrance at once disturbed her; 
she started up with a faint scream of surprise, and 
escaped through one of the several folding-doors 
which opened into this apartment as a common 


236 


THE ABBOT. 


centre. This door, which Roland Graeme instantly 
approached, opened on a large and well -lighted 
gallery, at the upper end of which he could hear sev- 
eral voices, and the noise of hasty steps approach- 
ing towards the hall, or vestibule. A little recalled 
to sober thought by an appearance of serious dan- 
ger, he was deliberating whether he should stand 
fast or retire, when Catherine Seyton re-entered 
from a side door, running towards him with as much 
speed as a few minutes since she had fled from 
him. 

0, what mischief brought you hither ? ” she said ; 
" fly — fly, or you are a dead man, — or stay — they 
come — flight is impossible — say you came to ask 
for Lord Seyton.” 

She sprung from him and disappeared through 
the door by which she had made her second ap- 
pearance ; and, at the same instant, a pair of large 
folding-doors at the upper end of the gallery flew 
open with vehemence, and six or seven young gen- 
tlemen, richly dressed, pressed forward into the 
apartment, having, for the greater part, their 
swords drawn. 

“ Who is it,” said one, dare intrude on us in our 
own mansion ? ” 

“ Cut him to pieces,” said another ; “ let him pay 
for this day’s insolence and violence — he is some 
follower of the Rothes.” 

“No, by Saint Mary,” said another; “he is a 
follower of the arch-fiend and ennobled clown Hal- 
bert Glendinning, who takes the style of Avenel — 
once a church-vassal, now a pillager of the church.” 

“ It is so,” said a fourth ; “ I know him by the 
holly-sprig, which is their cognisance. Secure the 
door, he must answer for this insolence.” 




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THE ABBOT. 


237 

Two of the gallants, hastily drawing their weapons, 
passed on to the door by which Koland had entered 
the hall, and stationed themselves there ' as if to 
prevent his escape. The others advanced on Grseme, 
who had just sense enough to perceive that any 
attempt at resistance would he alike fruitless and 
imprudent. At once, and by various voices, none 
of which sounded amicably, the page was required 
to say who he was, whence he came, his name, his 
errand, and who sent him hither. The number of 
the questions demanded of him at once, afforded a 
momentary apology for his remaining silent, and ere 
that brief truce had elapsed, a personage entered the 
hall, at whose appearance those who had gathered 
fiercely around Roland, fell back with respect. 

This was a tall man, whose dark hair was already 
grizzled, though his eye and haughty features re- 
tained all the animation of youth. The upper part 
of his person was undressed to his Holland shirt, 
whose ample folds were stained with blood. But 
he wore a mantle of crimson, lined with rich fur, 
cast around him, which supplied the deficiency of 
his dress. On his head he had a crimson velvet 
bonnet, looped up on one side with a sm^ll golden 
chain of many links, which, going thrice round the 
hat, was fastened by a medal, agreeable to the 
fashion amongst the grandees of the time. 

“Whom have you here, sons and kinsmen,” said 
he, “ around whom you crowd thus roughly ? — 
Know you not that the shelter of this roof should 
secure every one fair treatment, who shall come 
hither either in fair peace, or in open and manly 
hostility ? ” 

“ But here, my lord,” answered one of the youths 
“ is a knave who comes on treacherous espial ! ” 


THE ABBOT. 


238 

“ I deny the charge,” said Eoland Graeme, boldly, 
“ I came to enquire after my Lord Seyton.” 

“A likely tale,” answered his accusers, “in the 
mouth of a follower of Glendinning.” 

“ Stay, young men,” said the Lord Seyton, for 
it was that nobleman himself, “ let me look at this 
youth — By Heaven, it is the very same who came 
so boldly to my side not very many minutes since, 
when some of my own knaves bore themselves with 
more respect to their own worshipful safety than to 
mine ! Stand back from him, for he well deserves 
honour and a friendly welcome at your hands, 
instead of this rough treatment.” 

They fell back on all sides, obedient to Lord 
Seyton’s commands, who, taking Eoland Graeme by 
the hand, thanked him for his prompt and gallant 
assistance, adding, that he nothing doubted, “the 
same interest which he had taken in his cause in 
the affray, brought him hither to enquire after his 
hurt.” 

Eoland bowed low in acquiescence. 

“ Or is there any thing in which I can serve you, 
to show my sense of your ready gallantry ? ” 

But the page, thinking it best to abide by the 
apology for his visit which the Lord Seyton had so 
aptly himself suggested, replied, “ that to be assured 
of his lordship’s safety, had been the only cause 
of his intrusion. He judged,” he added, “he had 
seen him receive some hurt in the affray.” 

“ A trifle,” said Lord Seyton, “ I had but stripped 
my doublet, that the chirurgeon might put some 
dressing on the paltry scratch, when these rash 
boys interrupted us with their clamour.” 

Eoland Graeme, making a low obeisance, was now 
about to depart, for, relieved from the danger of 


THE ABBOT. 


239 


being treated as a spy, he began next to fear, that 
his companion, Adam Woodcock, whom he had so 
unceremoniously quitted, would either bring him 
into some farther dilemma, by venturing into the 
hotel in quest of him, or ride off and leave him be- 
hind altogether. But Lord Seyton did not permit 
him to escape so easily. — “ Tarry,” he said, “ young 
man, and let me know thy rank and name. The 
Seyton has of late been more wont to see friends and 
followers shrink from his side, than to receive aid 
from strangers — but a new world may come round, 
in which he may have the chance of rewarding his 
well-wishers.” 

“ My name is Eoland Graeme, my lord,” answered 
the youth, “ a page, who, for the present, is in the 
service of Sir Halbert Glendinning.” 

“ I said so from the first,” said one of the young 
men ; “ my life I will wager, that this is a shaft out 
of the heretic’s quiver — a stratagem from first to 
last, to injeer into your confidence some espial of 
his own. They know how to teach both boys and 
women to play the intelligencers.” 

“ That is false, if it be spoken of me,” said Ro- 
land ; “ no man in Scotland should teach me such 
a foul part ! ” 

“ I believe thee, boy,” said Lord Seyton, “ for 
thy strokes were too fair to be dealt upon an un- 
derstanding with those that were to receive them. 
Credit me, however, I little expected to have help 
at need from one of your master’s household ; and 
I would know what moved thee in my quarrel, to 
thine own endangering ? ” 

“ So please you, my lord,” said Eoland, “ I think 
my master himself would not have stood by, and 
seen an honourable man borne to earth by odds, if 


240 


THE ABBOT. 


his single arm could help him. Such, at least, is 
the lesson we were taught in chivalry, at the Castle 
of Avenel.” 

“The good seed hath fallen into good ground, 
young man,” said Seyton ; “ but, alas ! if thou prac- 
tise such honourable war in these dishonourable 
days, when right is everywhere borne down by mas- 
tery, thy life, my poor boy, will be but a short one.” 

Let it be short, so it be honourable,” said Eo- 
land Graeme ; “ and permit me now, my lord, to 
commend me to your grace, and to take my leave. 
A comrade waits with my horse in the street.” 

“ Take this, however, young man,” said Lord 
Seyton,^ undoing from his bonnet the golden chain 
and medal, “ and wear it for my sake.” 

With no little pride Eoland Graeme accepted the 
gift, which he hastily fastened around his bonnet, 
as he had seen gallants wear such an ornament, and, 
renewing his obeisance to the Baron, left the hall, 
traversed the court, and appeared in the street, just 
as Adam Woodcock, vexed and anxious at his de- 
lay, had determined to leave the horses to their fate, 
and go in quest of his youthful comrade. “ Whose 
barn hast thou broken next ? ” he exclaimed, greatly 
relieved by his appearance, although his counte- 
nance indicated that he had passed through an agi- 
tating scene. 

“Ask me no questions,” said Eoland, leaping gaily 
on his horse ; “ but see how short time it takes to 
win a chain of gold,” pointing to that which he now 
wore. 

“ Now, God forbid that thou hast either stolen 
it, or reft it by violence,” said the falconer; “for, 
otherwise, I wot not how the devil thou couldst com- 
^ Note IX — Seyten, or Seyton. 


THE ABBOT. 


241 


pass it. I have been often here, ay, for months at 
an end, and no one gave me either chain or medal.” 

“ Thou seest I have got one on shorter acquaint- 
ance with the city,” answered the page, “but set 
thine honest heart at rest ; that which is fairly won 
and freely given, is neither reft nor stolen.” 

“Marry, hang thee, with thy fanfarona^ about 
thy neck ! ” said the falconer ; “ I think water will 
not drown, nor hemp strangle thee. Thou hast 
been discarded as my lady’s page, to come in again 
as my lord’s squire ; and for following a noble young 
damsel into some great household, thou getst a chain 
and medal, where another would have had the baton 
across his shoulders, if he missed having the dirk 
in his body. — But here we come in front of the old 
Abbey. Bear thy good luck with you when you 
cross these paved stones, and, by Our Lady, you 
may brag Scotland.” 

As he spoke, they checked their horses, where 
the huge old vaulted entrance to the Abbey or 
Palace of Holyrood, crossed the termination of the 
street down which they had proceeded. The court- 
yard of the palace opened within this gloomy porch, 
showing the front of an irregular pile of monastic 
buildings, one wing of which is still extant, form- 
ing a part of the modern palace, erected in the days 
of Charles I. 

At the gate of the porch the falconer and page 
resigned their horses to the serving-man in attend- 
ance ; the falconer commanding him, with an air 
of authority, to carry them safely to the stables. — 

1 A name given to the gold chains worn by the military men of 
the period. It is of Spanish origin ; for the fashion of wearing 
these costly ornaments was much followed amongst the conquerors 
of the New World. 

VOL. I. — 16 


242 


THE ABBOT. 


“We follow,” he said, “ the Knight of Avenel. — 
We must bear ourselves for what we are here,” said 
he, in a whisper to Koland, “ for every one here is 
looked on as they demean themselves ; and he that 
is too modest must to the wall, as the proverb says ; 
therefore cock thy bonnet, man, and let us brook 
the causeway bravely/’ 

Assuming, therefore, an air of consequence, cor- 
responding to what he supposed to be his master’s 
importance and quality, Adam Woodcock led the 
way into the court-yard of the Palace of Holy rood. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


■ -■ The sky is clouded, Gaspard, 

And the vex’d ocean sleeps a troubled sleep, 

Beneath a lurid gleam of parting sunshine. 

Such slumber hangs o’er discontented lands, 

While factions doubt, as yet, if they have strength 
To front the open battle. 

Albion — A Poem. 

The youthful page paused on the entrance of the 
court-yard, and implored his guide to give him a 
moment’s breathing space. “ Let me hut look around 
me, man,” said he ; you consider not I have never 
seen such a scene as this before. — And this is Holy- 
rood — the resort of the gallant and gay, and the 
fair, and the wise, and the powerful ! ” 

“Ay, marry, is it !” said Woodcock ; “ but I wish 
I could hood thee as they do the hawks, for thou 
starest as wildly as if you sought another fray or 
another fanfarona. • I would I had thee safely housed, 
for thou lookest wild as a goss-hawk.” 

It was indeed no common sight to Eoland, the 
vestibule of a palace, traversed by its various groups, 
— some radiant with gaiety — some pensive, and 
apparently weighed down by affairs concerning the 
state, or concerning themselves. Here the hoary 
statesman, with his cautious yet commanding look, 
his furred cloak and sable pantoufles ; there the 
soldier in buff and steel, his long sword jarring 
against the pavement, and his whiskered upper lip 


244 


THE ABBOT. 


and frowning brow, looking a habitual defiance of 
danger which perhaps was not always made good ; 
there again passed my lord’s serving-man, high of 
heart, and bloody of hand, humble to his master and 
his master’s equals, insolent to all others. To these 
might be added, the poor suitor, with his anxious 
look and depressed mien — the officer, full of his 
brief authority, elbowing his betters, and possibly 
his benefactors, out of the road — the proud priest, 
who sought a better benefice — the proud baron, who 
sought a grant of church lands — the robber chief, 
who came to solicit a pardon for the injuries he had 
inflicted on his neighbours — the plundered franklin, 
who came to seek vengeance for that which he had 
himself received. Besides, there was the mustering 
and disposition of guards and soldiers — the dis- 
patching of messengers, and the receiving them — 
the trampling and neighing of horses without the 
gate — the flashing of arms, and rustling of plumes, 
and jingling of spurs, within it. In short, it was 
that gay and splendid confusion, in which the eye 
of youth sees all that is brave and brilliant, and that 
of experience much that is doubtful, deceitful, false, 
and hollow — hopes that will never be gratified — 
promises which will never be fulfilled — pride in the 
disguise of humility — and insolence in that of frank 
and generous bounty. 

As, tired of the eager and enraptured attention 
which the page gave to a scene so new to him, Adam 
Woodcock endeavoured to get him to move forward, 
before his exuberance of astonishment should attract 
the observation of the sharp-witted denizens of the 
court, the falconer himself became an object of at- 
tention to a gay menial in a dark-green bonnet and 
feather, with a cloak of a corresponding colour, laid 


THE ABBOT. 


245 


down, as the phrase then went, by six broad bars 
of silver lace, and welted with violet and silver. 
The words of recognition burst from both at once. 
“ What ! Adam Woodcock at court ! ” and “ What ! 
Michael Wing-the-wind — and how runs the hackit 
greyhound bitch now ? ” 

“ The waur for the wear, like ourselves, Adam, — 
eight years this grass — no four legs will carry a dog 
for ever ; but we keep her for the breed, and so she 
’scapes Border doom. — But why stand you gazing 
there ? I promise you my lord has wished for you, 
and asked for you.” 

“ My Lord of Murray asked for me, and he Eegent 
of the kingdom too ! ” said Adam. “ I hunger and 
thirst to pay my duty to my good lord ; — but I 
fancy his good lordship remembers the day’s sport 
on Carnwath-moor ; and my Drummelzier falcon, 
that beat the hawks from the Isle of Man, and won 
his lordship a hundred crowns from the Southern 
baron whom they called Stanley.” 

“ Nay, not to flatter thee, Adam,” said his court- 
friend, “ he remembers nought of thee, or of thy 
falcon either. He hath flown many a higher flight 
since that, and struck his quarry too. But come, 
come hither away ; I trust we are to be good com- 
rades on the old score.” 

“What !” said Adam, “you would have me crush 
a pot with you ? but I must first dispose of my eyas, 
where he will neither have girl to chase, nor lad to 
draw sword upon.” 

“ Is the youngster such a one ? ” said Michael. 

“Ay, by my hood, he flies at all game,” replied 
Woodcock. 

“ Then had he better come with us,” said Mi- 
chael Wing-the-wind ; “ for we cannot have a proper 


246 


THE ABBOT. 


carouse just now, only I would wet my lips, and 
so must you. I want to hear the news from Saint 
Mary’s before you see my lord, and I will let you 
know how the wind sits up yonder.” 

While he thus spoke, he led the way to a side 
door which opened into the court; and threading 
several dark passages with the air of one who knew 
the most secret recesses of the palace, conducted 
them to a small matted chamber, where he placed 
bread and cheese and a foaming flagon of ale before 
the falconer and his young companion, who imme- 
diately, did justice to the latter in a hearty draught, 
which nearly emptied the measure. Having drawn 
his breath, and dashed the froth from his whiskers, 
he observed that his anxiety for the boy had made 
him deadly dry. 

“ Mend your draught,” said his hospitable friend, 
again supplying the flagon from a pitcher which 
stood beside. " I know the way to the buttery-har. 
And now, mind what I say — this morning the Earl 
of Morton came to my lord in a mighty chafe.” 

“What! they keep the old friendship, then?” 
said Woodcock. 

“ Ay, ay, man, what else ? ” said Michael ; “ one 
hand must scratch the other. But in a mighty chafe 
was my Lord of Morton, who, to say truth, looketh 
on such occasions altogether uncanny, and, as it were, 
fiendish ; and he says to my lord — for I was in the 
chamber taking orders about a cast of hawks that 
are to be fetched from Darnoway — they match 
your long-winged falcons, friend Adam.” 

“ I will believe that when I see them fly as high 
a pitch,” replied Woodcock, this professional obser- 
vation forming a sort of parenthesis. 

“ However,” said Michael, pursuing his tale, “ my 


THE ABBOT. 


247 


Lord of Morton, in a mighty chafe, asked my Lord 
Kegent whether he was well dealt with — ‘ for my 
brother,' said he, ‘should have had a gift to be Com- 
mendator of Kennaquhair, and to have all the tem- 
poralities erected into a lordship of regality for his 
benefit ; and here,’ said he, ‘ the false monks have 
had the insolence to choose a new Abbot to put his 
claim in my brother’s way ; and, moreover, the ras- 
cality of the neighbourhood have burnt and plun- 
dered all that was left in the Abbey, so that my 
brother will not have a house to dwell in, when he 
hath ousted the lazy hounds of priests.’ And my 
lord, seeing him chafed, said mildly to him, ‘ These 
are shrewd tidings, Douglas, hut I trust they be not 
true ; for Halbert Glendinning went southward yes- 
terday, with a band of spears, and assuredly, had- 
either of these chances happened, that the monks 
had presumed to choose an Abbot, or that the Abbey 
had been burnt, as you say, he had taken order 
on the spot for the punishment of such insolence, 
and had dispatched us a messenger.’ And the Earl 
of Morton replied — Now I pray you, Adam, to no- 
tice, that I say this out of love to you and your lord, 
and also for old comradeship, and also because Sir 
Halbert hath done me good, and may again — and 
also because I love not the Earl of Morton, as in- 
deed more fear than like him — so then it were a 
foul deed in you to betray me, — ‘ But,’ said the 
Earl to the Eegent, ‘ Take heed, my lord, you trust 
not this Glendinning too far — he comes of churl’s 
blood, which was never true to the nobles ’ — by 
Saint Andrew, these were his very words. — ‘ And 
besides,’ he said, ‘ he hath a brother a monk in Saint 
Mary’s, and walks all by his guidance, and is making 
friends on the Border with Buccleuch and with Eer- 


248 


THE ABBOT. 


nieherst,^ and will: join hand with them, were there 
likelihood of a new world/ And my lord answered, 
like a free noble lord as he is : ‘ Tush !. my Lord of 
Morton, I will be warrant for Glendinning’s faith ; 
and for his brother, he is a dreamer, that thinks of 
nought but book and breviary — and if such hap 
have chanced as you tell of, I look to receive from 
Glendinning the cowl of a hanged monk, and the 
head of a riotous churl, by way of sharp and sudden 
justice/ — And my Lord of Morton left the place, 
and, as it seemed to me, somewhat malecontent. 
But since that time, my lord has asked me more 
than once whether there has arrived no messenger 
from the Knight of Avenel. And all this I have 
told you, that you may frame your discourse to the 
best purpose, for it seems to me that my lord will 
not be well pleased, if aught has happened like what 
my Lord of Morton said, and if your lord hath not 
ta’en strict orders with it/’ 

There was something in this communication 
which fairly blanked the bold visage of Adam 
Woodcock, in spite of the reinforcement which his 
natural hardihood had received from the berry- 
brown ale of Holyrood. 

' “ What was it he said about a churl’s head, that 
grim Lord of Morton ? ” said the disconcerted fal- 
coner to his friend. 

“ Nay, it was my Lord Eegent, who said that he 
expected, if the Abbey was injured, your Knight 
would send him the head of the ringleader among 
the rioters.” 

“Nay, but is 'this done like a good Protestant,” 
said Adam Woodcock, “ or ^ true Lord of the Con- 

1 Both these Border chieftains were great friends of Queen 
Mary. 


THE ABBOT. 


249 


gregation ? We used to be their white-boys and 
darlings when we pulled down the convents in Fife 
and Perthshire.” 

“ Ay, but that,” said Michael, “ was when old 
mother Home held her own, and her great folks 
were determined she should have no shelter for her 
head in Scotland. But, now that the priests are 
fled in all quarters, and their houses and lands are 
given to our grandees, they cannot see that we 
are working the work of reformation in destroying 
the palaces of zealous Protestants.” 

“ But I tell you Saint Mary’s is not destroyed ! ” 
said Woodcock, in increasing agitation; “some trash 
of painted windows there were broken — things that 
no nobleman could have brooked in his house — 
some stone saints were brought on their marrow- 
bones, like old Widdrington at Chevy-Chase ; but as 
for fire-raising, there was not so much as a lighted 
lunt amongst us, save the match which the dragon 
had to light the burning tow withal, which he was to 
spit against Saint George ; nay, I had caution of that.” 

“ How ! Adam Woodcock,” said his comrade, “ I 
trust thou hadst no hand in such a fair work ? Look 
you, Adam, I were loth to terrify you, and you just 
come from a journey ; but I promise you, Earl Mor- 
ton hath brought you down a Maiden from Halifax, 
you never saw the like of her — and she’ll clasp you 
round the neck, and your head will remain in her 
arms.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” answered Adam, “ I am too old to 
have my head turned by any maiden of them all. I 
know my Lord of Morton will go as far for a buxom 
lass as any one; but what the devil took him to 
Halifax all the way ? and if he has got a games tei 
there, what hath she to do with my head ? ” 


250 


THE ABBOT. 


‘'Much, much!” answered Michael. “Herod’s 
daughter, who did such execution with her foot 
and ankle, danced not men’s heads off more cleanly 
than this maiden of Morton. ^ ’Tis an axe, man, — 
an axe which falls of itself like a sash window, and 
never gives the headsman the trouble to wield it.” 

“ By my faith, a shrewd device, ” said Woodcock ; 
“ Heaven keep us free on’t 1 ” 

The page, seeing no end to the conversation be- 
tween these two old comrades, and anxious, from 
what he had heard, concerning the fate of the 
Abbot, now interrupted their conference. 

“ Methinks, ” he said, “ Adam Woodcock, thou 
hadst better deliver thy master’s letter to the 
Kegent; questionless he hath therein stated what 
has chanced at Kennaquhair, in the way most ad- 
vantageous for all concerned. ” 

"The boy is right,” said Michael Wing-the- 
wind, " my lord will be very impatient. ” 

" The child hath wit enough to keep himself 
warm, ” said Adam Woodcock, producing from his 
hawking-bag his lord’s letter, addressed to the 
Earl of Murray, " and for that matter so have I. 
So, Master Koland, you will e’en please to present 
this yourself to the Lord Kegent ; his presence will 
be better graced by a young page than by an old 
falconer. ” 

" Well said, canny Yorkshire ! ” replied his 
friend ; “ and but now you were so earnest to see 
our good Lord ! — Why, wouldst thou put the lad 
into the noose that thou mayst slip tether thyself ? 

i Maiden of Morton — a species of guillotine which the Regent 
Morton brought down from Halifax, certainly at a period consider- 
ably later than intimated in the tale. He was himself the first that 
suffered by the engine, (k). 


THE ABBOT. 


251 


— or dost thou think the Maiden will clasp his 
fair young neck more willingly than thy old sun- 
burnt weasand ? ” 

“ Go to, ” answered the falconer ; " thy wit towers 
high an it could strike the quarry. I tell thee, 
the youth has nought to fear — he had nothing 
to do with the gambol — a rare gambol it was, 
Michael, as madcaps ever played ; and I had made as 
rare a ballad, if we had had the luck to get it sung 
to an end. But mum for that — tace, as I said be- 
fore, is Latin for a candle. Carry the youth to the 
presence, and I will remain here, with bridle in 
hand, ready to strike the spurs up to the rowel- 
heads, in case the hawk flies my way. — I will 
soon put Soltra-edge, I trow, betwixt the Eegent 
and me, if he means me less than fair play. ” 

“ Come on then, my lad, ” said Michael, “ since 
thou must needs take the spring before canny 
Yorkshire. ” So saying, he led the way through 
winding passages, closely followed by Eoland 
Graeme, until they arrived at a large winding stone 
stair, the steps of which were so long and broad, 
and at the same time so low, as to render the 
ascent uncommonly easy. When they had ascended 
about the height of one story, the guide stepped 
aside, and pushed open the door of a dark and 
gloomy antechamber ; so dark indeed, that his 
youthful companion stumbled, and nearly fell down 
upon a low step, which was awkwardly placed on 
the very threshold. 

“ Take heed, ” said Michael Wing-the-wind, in 
a very low tone of voice, and first glancing cau- 
tiously round to see if any one listened — “ Take 
heed, my young friend, for those who fall on these 
boards seldom rise again. — Seest thou that,” he 


252 


THE ABBOT. 


added, in a still lower voice, pointing to some dark 
crimson stains on the floor, on which a ray of light, 
shot through a small aperture, and traversing the 
general gloom of the apartment, fell with mottled 
radiance — “ Seest thou that, youth ? — walk warily, 
for men have fallen here before you. ” 

“ What mean you ? ” said the page, his flesh 
creeping, though he scarce knew why ; “ is it 
blood ? ” 

“ Ay, ay, ” said the domestic, in the same whis- 
pering tone, and dragging the youth on by the arm — 
“ Blood it is, — but this is no time to question, or 
even to look at it. Blood it is, foully and fear- 
fully shed, as foully and fearfully avenged. The 
blood,” he added, in a still more cautious tone, 
“ of Seignior David. ” (/) 

Koland Grieme’s heart throbbed when he found 
himself so unexpectedly in the scene of Eizzio’s 
slaughter, a catastrophe which had chilled with 
horror all even in that rude age, which had been 
the theme of wonder and pity through every cot- 
tage and castle in Scotland, and had not escaped 
that of Avenel. But his guide hurried him for- 
ward, permitting no further question, and with 
the manner of one who has already tampered too 
much with a dangerous subject. A tap which he 
made at a low door at one end of the vestibule, 
was answered by a huissier, or usher, who, opening 
it cautiously, received Michael’s intimation that a 
page waited the Eegent’s leisure, who brought 
letters from the Knight of Avenel. 

“ The Council is breaking up, ” said the usher ; 
“ but give me the packet ; his grace the Eegent 
will presently see the messenger. ” 

" The packet,” replied the page, “ must be deliv 


THE ABBOT. 


253 


ered into the Eegent’s own hands ; such were the 
orders of my master. ” 

The usher looked at him from head to foot, as if 
surprised at his boldness, and then replied, with 
some asperity, “ Say you so, my young master ? 
Thou crowest loudly to be but a chicken, and from 
a country barn -yard too. ” 

“ Were it a time or place, ” said Eoland, " thou 
shouldst see I can do more than crow ; but do your 
duty, and let the Eegent know I wait his pleasure. ” 
“ Thou art but a pert knave to tell me of my 
duty, ” said the courtier in office ; " but I will find 
a time to show you you are out of yours ; mean- 
while, wait there till you are wanted. ” So saying, 
he shut the door in Eoland ’s face. 

Michael Wing-the-wind, who had shrunk from 
his youthful companion during this altercation, 
according to the established maxim of courtiers of 
all ranks, and in all ages, now transgressed their 
prudential line of conduct so far as to come up 
to him once more. “ Thou art a hopeful young 
springald, ” said he, “ and I see right well old 
Yorkshire had reason in his caution. Thou hast 
been five minutes in the court, and hast employed 
thy time so well, as to make a powerful and 
a mortal enemy of the usher of the council-chamber. 
Why, man, you might almost as well have of- 
fended the deputy butler ! ” 

“ I care not what he is, ” said Eoland Graeme ; 
" I will teach whomever I speak with, to speak 
civilly to me in return. I did not come from 
Avenel to be browbeaten in Holyrood. ” 

" Bravo, my lad ! ” said Michael ; “ it is a fine 
spirit if you can hold it — but see, the dooi 
opens. ” 


254 


THE ABBOT. 


The usher appeared, and, in a more civil tone of 
voice and manner, said, that his Grace the Kegent 
would receive the Knight of Avenel’s message; 
and accordingly marshalled Koland Graeme the way 
into the apartment, from which the Council had 
been just dismissed, after finishing their consulta- 
tions. There was in the room a long oaken table, 
surrounded by stools of the same wood, with a large 
elbow-chair, covered with crimson velvet, at the 
head. Writing materials and papers were lying 
there in apparent disorder ; and one or two of the 
privy councillors who had lingered behind, assum- 
ing their cloaks, bonnets, and swords, and bidding 
farewell to the Eegent, were departing slowly by 
a large door, on the opposite side to that through 
which the page entered. Apparently the Earl of 
Murray had made some jest, for the smiling coun- 
tenances of the statesmen expressed that sort of 
cordial reception which is paid by courtiers to the 
condescending pleasantries of a prince. 

The Eegent himself was laughing heartily as he 
said, “ Farewell, my lords, and hold me remem- 
bered to the Cock of the North. ” 

He then turned slowly round towards Eoland 
Graeme, and the marks of gaiety, real or assumed, 
disappeared from his countenance, as completely 
as the passing bubbles leave the dark mirror of a 
still profound lake into which a traveller has cast 
a stone ; in the course of a minute his noble fea- 
tures had assumed their natural expression of deep 
and even melancholy gravity. 

This distinguished statesman, for as such his 
worst enemies acknowledged him, possessed all the 
external dignity, as well as almost all the noble 
qualities, which could grace the power that he en- 


THE ABBOT. 


255 


joyed ; and had he succeeded to the throne as his 
legitimate inheritance, it is probable he would 
have been recorded as one of Scotland’s wisest and 
greatest kings. But that he held his authority by 
the deposition and imprisonment of his sister and 
benefactress, was a crime which those only can ex- 
cuse who think, ambition an apology for ingrati- 
tude. He was dressed plainly in black velvet, 
after the Flemish fashion, and wore in his high- 
crowned hat a jewelled clasp, which looped it up 
on one side, and formed the only ornament of his 
apparel. He had his poniard by his side, and his 
sword lay on the council table. 

Such was the personage before whom Boland 
Graeme now presented himself, with a feeling of 
breathless awe, (m) very different from the usual 
boldness and vivacity of his temper. In fact, he 
was, from education and nature, forward but not 
impudent, and was much more easily controlled 
by the moral superiority, arising from the elevated 
talents and renown of those with whom he con- 
versed, than by pretensions founded only on rank 
or external show. He might have braved with 
indifference the presence of an earl, merely distin- 
guished by his belt and coronet ; but he felt over- 
awed in that of the eminent soldier and statesman, 
the wielder of a nation’s power, and the leader qf 
her armies. — The greatest and wisest are flattered 
by the deference of youth — so graceful and becom- 
ing in itself ; and Murray took, with much cour- 
tesy, the letter from the hands of the abashed and 
blushing page, and answered with complaisance to 
the imperfect and half-muttered greeting which he 
endeavoured to deliver to him on the part of Sir 
Halbert of Avenel. He even paused a moment 


256 


THE ABBOT. 


ere he broke the silk with which the letter was 
secured, to ask the page his name — so much he 
was struck with his very handsome features and 
form. 

" Koland Graham, ” he said, repeating the words 
after the hesitating page, “ what, of the Grahams 
of the Lennox ? ” . , 

" No, my lord, ” replied Eoland ; “ my parents 
dwelt in the Debateable Land. ” 

Murray made no farther enquiry, but proceeded 
to read his despatches ; during the perusal of which, 
his brow began to assume a stern expression of dis- 
pleasure, as that of one who found something which 
at once surprised and disturbed him. He sate down 
on the nearest seat, frowned till his eyebrows al- 
most met together, read the letter twice over, and 
was then silent for several minutes. At length, 
raising his head, his eye encountered that of the 
usher, who in vain endeavoured to exchange the 
look of eager and curious observation with which 
he had been perusing the Eegent’s features, for 
that open and unnoticing expression of counte- 
nance, which, in looking at all, seems as if it saw 
and marked nothing — a cast of look which may 
be practised with advantage by all those, of what- 
ever degree, who are admitted to witness the famil- 
iar and unguarded hours of their superiors. Great 
men are as jealous of their thoughts as the wife of 
King Candaules (n) was of her charms, and will as 
readily punish those who have, however involun- 
tarily, beheld them in mental deshabille and 
exposure. 

“ Leave the apartment, Hyndman, ” said the 
Regent, sternly, " and carry your observation else- 
where. You are too knowing, sir, for your post. 


THE ABBOT. 


257 


which, by special order, is destined for men of 
blunter capacity. So ! now you look more like a 
fool than you did ” — (for Hyndman, as may easily 
be supposed, was not a little disconcerted by this 
rebuke) — “ keep that confused stare, and it may 
keep your office. Begone, sir ! ” 

The usher departed in dismay, not forgetting to 
register, amongst his other causes of dislike to 
Roland Graeme, that he had been the witness of 
this disgraceful chiding. When he had left the 
apartment, the Regent again addressed the page. 

“ Your name you say is Armstrong ? ” 

“No,” replied Roland, “my name is Graeme, 
so please you — Roland Graeme, whose forbears 
were designated of Heathergill, in the Debateable 
Land. ” 

“ Ay, I knew it was a name from the Debate- 
able Land. Hast thou any acquaintances here in 
Edinburgh ? ” 

“ My lord, ” replied Roland, willing rather to 
evade this question than to answer it directly, for 
the prudence of being silent with respect to Lord 
Seyton’s adventure immediately struck him, “ I 
have been in Edinburgh scarce an hour, and that 
for the first time in my life. ” 

“What! and thou Sir Halbert Glendinning’s 
page ? ” said the Regent. 

“ I was brought up as my Lady’s page,” said the 
youth, “ and left Avenel Castle for the first time 
in my life — at least since my childhood — only 
three days since. ” 

“ My Lady’s page ! ” repeated the Earl of Murray, 
as if speaking to himself ; “ it was strange to send 
his Lady’s page on a matter of such deep concern- 
ment — Morton will say it is of a piece with the 

VOL. L — 17 


258 


THE ABBOT. 


nomination of his brother to he Abbot ; and yet in 
some sort an inexperienced youth will best serve 
the turn. — What hast thou been taught, young 
man, in thy doughty apprenticeship ? ” 

" To hunt, my lord, and to hawk, ” said Eoland 
Graeme. 

“ To hunt coneys, and to hawk at ouzels ? ” said 
the Eegent, smiling ; " for such are the sports of 
ladies and their followers. ” 

. Graeme’s cheek reddened deeply as he replied, 
not without some emphasis, " To hunt red-deer of 
the first head, and to strike down herons of the 
highest soar, my lord, which, in Lothian speech, 
may be termed, for aught I know, coneys and 
ouzels; — also, I can wield a brand and couch a 
lance, according to our Border meaning; in in- 
land speech these may be termed water-flags and 
bulrushes. ” 

“ Thy speech rings like metal, ” said the Eegent, 

" and I pardon the sharpness of it for the truth. — 
Thou knowest, then, what belongs to the duty of a 
man-at-arms ? ” 

“ So far as exercise can teach it, without real 
service in the field,” answered Eoland Graeme; 
" but our Knight permitted none of his household 
to make raids, and I never had the good fortune to 
see a stricken field. ” 

“ The good fortune ! ” repeated the Eegent, smil- 
ing somewhat sorrowfully, take my word, young 
man. war is the only game from which both parties 
rise loser* " 

“ Not always, my lord. ” answered the page, with 
his characteristic audacity, " if fame soeaks truth. ” 

“ How, sir ? ” said the Eegent, colouring his 
turn, and perhaps suspecting an indiscreet allusioA 


THE ABBOT. 


259 


to the height which he himself had attained by the 
hap of civil war. 

“ Because, my lord, ” said Eoland Graeme, with- 
out change of tone, “ he who fights well, must have 
fame in life, or honour in death ; and so war is a 
game from which no one can rise a loser. ” 

The Regent smiled and shook his head, when at 
that moment the door opened, and the Earl of 
Morton presented himself. 

“ I come somewhat hastily, ” he said, “ and I 
enter unannounced, because my news are of weight 
— It is as I said ; Edward Glendinning is named 
Abbot, and ” 

“ Hush, my lord ! ” said the Regent, “ I know it, 
but ” 

“ And perhaps you knew it before I did, my Lord 
of Murray,” answered Morton, his dark red brow 
growing darker and redder as he spoke. 

“ Morton, ” said Murray, “ suspect me not — 
touch not mine honour — I have to suffer enough 
from the calumnies of foes, let me not have to con- 
tend with the unjust suspicions of my friends. — We 
are not alone, ” said he, recollecting himself, “ or I 
could tell thee more. ” 

He led Morton into one of the deep embrasures 
which the windows formed in the massive wall, 
and which afforded a retiring place for their con- 
versing apart. In this recess, Roland observed 
them speak together with much earnestness, Murray 
appearing to be grave and earnest, and Morton 
having a jealous and offended air, which seemed 
gradually to give way to the assurances of the 
Regent. 

As their conversation grew more earnest, they 
became gradually louder in speech, having perhaps 


z6o 


THE ABBOT. 


forgotten the presence of the page, the more read- 
ily as his position in the apartment placed him out 
of sight, so that he found himself unwillingly 
privy to more of their discourse than he cared to 
hear. For, page though he was, a mean curiosity 
after the secrets of others had never been numbered 
amongst Boland’s failings; and moreover, with all 
his natural rashness, he could not but doubt the 
safety of becoming privy to the secret discourse of 
these powerful and dreaded men. Still he could 
neither stop his ears, nor with propriety leave the 
apartment; and while he thought of some means 
of signifying his presence, he had already heard so 
much, that, to have produced himself suddenly 
would have been as awkward, and perhaps as dan- 
gerous, as in quiet to abide the end of their confer- 
ence. What he overheard, however, was but an 
imperfect part of their communication ; and al- 
though a more expert politician, acquainted with 
the circumstances of the times, would have had 
little difficulty in tracing the meaning, yet Boland 
Graeme could only form very general and vague 
conjectures as to the import of their discourse. 

“ All is prepared, ” said Murray, “ and Lindesay 
is setting forward — She must hesitate no longer 
— thou seest I act by thy counsel, and harden my- 
self against softer considerations. ” 

“ True, my lord, ” replied Morton, " in what is 
necessary to gain power, you do not hesitate, but go 
boldly to the mark. But are you as careful to de- 
fend and preserve what you have won ? — Why this 
establishment of domestics around her ? — has not 
your sister men and maidens enough to tend her, 
but you must consent to this superfluous and dan- 
gerous retinue ? ” 


THE ABBOT. 


261 


“For shame, Morton ! — a Princess, and my sis- 
ter, could I do less than allow her due tendance ? ” 

" Ay, ” replied Morton, “ even thus fly all your 
shafts — smartly enough loosened from the bow, 
and not unskilfully aimed — but a breath of fool- 
ish affection ever crosses in the mid volley, and 
sways the arrow from the mark. ” 

" Say not so, Morton ! ” replied Murray, “ I have 

both dared and done ” 

" Yes, enough to gain, but not enough to keep — 
reckon not that she will think and act thus — you 
have wounded her deeply both in pride and in 
power — it signifies nought, that you would tent 
now the wound with unavailing salves — as matters 
stand with you, you must forfeit the title of an 
affectionate brother, to hold that of a bold and de- 
termined statesman. ” 

‘ “ Morton ! ” said Murray, with some impatience, 
" I brook not these taunts — what I have done I 
have done — what I must farther do, I must and 
will — but I am not made of iron like thee, and I 
cannot but remember — Enough of this — my pur- 
pose holds. ” 

" And I warrant me, ” said Morton, '' the choice 

of these domestic consolations will rest with ” 

Here he whispered names which escaped Boland 
Graeme’s ear. Murray replied in a similar tone, 
but so much raised towards the conclusion of the 
sentence, that the page heard these words — “ And 
of him I hold myself secure, by Glendinning’s 
recommendation. ” 

“ Ay, which may be as much trustworthy as his 
late conduct at the Abbey of Saint Mary’s — you 
have heard that his brother’s election has taken 
place. Your favourite Sir Halbert, my Lord of 


262 


THE ABBOT. 


Murray, has as much fraternal affection as your- 
self. ” 

“ By Heaven, Morton, that taunt demanded an 
unfriendly answer, but I pardon it, for your brother 
also is concerned; but this election shall be an- 
nulled. I tell you, Earl of Morton, while I hold 
the sword of state in my royal nephew’s name, 
neither Lord nor Knight in Scotland shall dispute 
my authority ; and if I bear with insults from my 
friends, it is only while I know them to be such, 
and forgive their follies for their faithfulness. ” 

Morton muttered what seemed to be some excuse, 
and the Eegent answered him in a milder tone, and 
then subjoined, " Besides, I have another pledge 
than Glendinning’s recommendation for this youth’s 
fidelity — his nearest relative has placed herself in 
my hands as his security, to be dealt withal as his 
doings shall deserve. ” 

“ That is something,” replied Morton; “ but yet, 
in fair love and good-will, I must still pray you to 
keep on your guard. The foes are stirring again, 
as horse-flies and hornets become busy so soon as 
the storm-blast is over. George of Seyton was 
crossing the causeway this morning with a score of 
men at his back, and had a ruffle with my friends 
of the house of Leslie — they met at the Tron, 
and were fighting hard, when the provost with his 
guard of partisans, came in thirdsman, and staved 
them asunder with their halberds, as men part dog 
and bear. ” 

“ He hath my order for such interference, ” said 
the Eegent — “ Has any one been hurt ? ” 

“ George of Seyton himself, by black Ealph 
Leslie — the devil take the rapier that ran not 
through from side to side! Ealph has a bloody 


THE ABBOT. 


263 


coxcomb, by a blow from a messan-page whom no- 
body knew — Dick Seyton of Windygowl is run 
through the arm, and two gallants of the Leslies 
have suffered phlebotomy. This is all the gentle 
blood which has been spilled in the revel ; but a 
yeoman or two on both sides have had bones broken 
and ears cropped. The ostlere-wives, who are like 
to be the only losers by their miscarriage, have 
dragged the knaves off the street, and are crying a 
drunken coronach over them. ” 

“ You take it lightly, Douglas, ” said the Eegent ; 
" these broils and feuds would shame the capital of 
the Great Turk, let alone that of a Christian and 
reformed state. But, if I live, this gear shall be 
amended ; and men shall say, when they read my 
story, that if it were my cruel hap to rise to power 
by the dethronement of a sister, I employed it, 
when gained, for the benefit of the commonweal. ” 

" And of your friends,” replied Morton; “where- 
fore I trust for your instant order annulling 
the election of this lurdane Abbot, Edward 
Glendinning. ” 

“ You shall be presently satisfied, ” said the Re- 
gent, and, stepping forward, he began to call “ So 
ho, Hyndman!” when suddenly his eye lighted on 
Roland Graeme — " By my faith, Douglas, ” said he, 
turning to his friend, “ here have been three at 
counsel ! ” 

“ Ay, but only two can keep counsel,” said 
Morton ; “ the galliard must be disposed of. ” 

“ For shame, Morton — an orphan boy ! — 
Hearken thee, my child — Thou hast told me some 
of thy accomplishments — canst thou speak truth ? ” 
“ Ay, my lord, when it serves my turn, ” replied 
Graeme. 


264 


THE ABBOT. 


“ It shall serve thy turn now, ” said the Eegent ; 
“ and falsehood shall be thy destruction. How 
much hast thou heard or understood of what we 
two have spoken together ? ” 

“ But little, my lord, ” replied Eoland Graeme 
boldly, " which met my apprehension, saving that 
it seemed to me as if in something you doubted the 
faith of the Knight of Avenel, under whose roof I 
was nurtured. ” 

" And what hast thou to say on that point, young 
man ? ” continued the Eegent, bending his eyes 
upon him with a keen and strong expression of 
observation. 

“ That, ” said the page, " depends on the quality 
of those who speak against his honour whose bread 
I have long eaten. If they be my inferiors, I say 
they lie, and will maintain what I say with my 
baton ; if my equals, still I say they lie, and will 
do battle in the quarrel, if they list, with my 
sword; if my superiors” — he paused. 

“ Proceed boldly, ” said the Eegent — “ What if 
thy superiors said aught that nearly touched your 
master’s honour?” 

" I would say, ” replied Grseme, “ that he did ill 
to slander the absent, and that my master was a 
man who could render an account of his actions to 
any one who should manfully demand it of him to 
his face. ” 

“ And it were manfully said, ” replied the Eegent 
— “ what thinkest thou, my Lord of Morton ? ” 

“ I think, ” replied Morton, " that if the young 
galliard resemble a certain ancient friend of ours, 
as much in the craft of his disposition as he does 
in eye and in brow, there may be a wide difference 
betwixt what he means and what he speaks. ” 


THE ABBOT. 265 

* And whom meanest thou that he resembles so 
closely ? ” said Murray. 

‘‘Even the true and trusty Julian Avenel,” re- 
plied Morton. 

“ But this youth belongs to the Debateable Land,’* 
said Murray. 

“It may be so; hut Julian was an outlying 
striker of venison, and made many a far cast when 
he had a fair doe in chase.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” said the Kegent, “ this is hut idle talk 

Here, thou Hyndman — thou curiosity,” calling 
to the usher, who now entered, “conduct this 
youth to his companion. — You will both,” he 
said to Graeme, “keep yourselves in readiness to 
travel on short notice.” — And then motioning 
to him courteously to withdraw, he broke up the 
interview. 


CHAPTEK XIX. 


It is and is not — ’tis the thing I sought for, 

Have kneel’d for, pray’d for, risk’d my fame and life for, 

And yet it is not — no more than the shadow 
Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polish’d mirror. 

Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance 
Which it presents in form and lineament. 

Old Play. 

The usher, with gravity which ill concealed a 
jealous scowl, conducted Roland Graeme to a lower 
apartment, where he found his comrade the fal- 
coner. The man of office then briefly acquainted 
them that this would he their residence till his 
Grace’s further orders ; that they were to go to the 
pantry, to the buttery, to the cellar, and to the 
kitchen, at the usual hours, to receive the allow- 
ances becoming their station, — instructions which 
Adam Woodcock’s old familiarity with the court 
made him perfectly understand — “For your beds,” 
he said, “ you must go to the hostelrie of Saint Mi- 
chael’s, in respect the palace is now full of the do- 
mestics of the greater nobles.” 

Xo sooner was the usher’s back turned than Adam 
exclaimed, with all the glee of eager curiosity, 
“ And now. Master Roland, the news — the news — 
come, unbutton thy pouch, and give us thy tidings 
— What says the Regent ? asks he for Adam Wood- 
cock ? — and is all soldered up, or must the Abbot 
of Unreason strap for it ? ” 


THE ABBOT. 


267 


"All is well in that quarter/* said the page; 
" and for the rest — But, hey-day, what ! have you 
taken the chain and medal off from my bonnet ? ’* 

" And meet time it was, when yon usher, vine- 
gar-faced rogue that he is, began to enquire what 
popish trangam you were wearing — By the mass, 
the metal would have been confiscated for con- 
science-sake, like your other rattle-trap yonder at 
Avenel, which Mrs. Lilias bears about on her shoes 
in the guise of a pair of shoe-buckles — This comes 
of carrying popish nicknackets about you.” 

“ The jade ! ” exclaimed Boland Graeme, “ has 
she melted down my rosary into buckles for her 
clumsy hoofs, which will set off such a garnish 
nearly as well as a cow’s might ? — But, hang her, let 
her keep them — many a dog’s trick have 1 played 
old Lilias, for want of having something better to do, 
and the buckles will serve for a remembrance. Do 
you remember the verjuice I put into the comfits, 
when old Wingate and she were to breakfast to- 
gether on Easter morning ? ” 

" In troth do I, Master Boland — the major- 
domo’s mouth was as crooked as a hawk’s beak for 
the whole morning afterwards, and any other page 
in your room would have tasted the discipline of the 
porter’s lodge for it. — But my Lady’s favour stood 
between your skin and many a jerking — Lord send 
you may be the better for her protection in such 
matters ! ” 

“ I am at least grateful for it, Adam ; and I am 
glad you put me in mind of it.” 

"Well, but the news, my young master,” said 
Woodcock, “spell me the tidings — what are we 
to fly at next? — what did the Begent say to 
you ? ” 


268 


THE ABBOT. 


'*N’othing that I am to repeat again,” said 
Eoland Graeme, shaking his head. 

“Why, hey-day,” said Adam, “how prudent we 
are become all of a sudden ! You have advanced 
rarely in brief space. Master Eoland. You have 
wellnigh had your head broken, and you have gained 
your gold chain, and you have made an enemy. 
Master Usher to wit, with his two legs like hawks’ 
perches, and you have had audience of the first man 
*in the realm, and bear as much mystery in your 
brow, as if you had flown in the court-sky ever since 
you were hatched. — I believe, in my soul, you 
would run with a piece of the egg-shell on your 
head like the curlews, which (I would we were af- 
ter them again) we used to call whaups in the Hal- 
idome and its neighbourhood. — But sit thee down, 
boy; Adam Woodcock was never the lad to seek 
to enter into forbidden secrets — sit thee down, and 
I will go fetch the vivers — I know the butler and 
the pantler of old.” 

The good-natured falconer set forth upon his er- 
rand, busying himself about procuring their refresh- 
ment; and, during his absence, Eoland Graeme 
abandoned himself to the strange, complicated, and 
yet heart-stirring reflections, to which the events of 
the morning had given rise. Yesterday he was of 
neither mark nor likelihood, a vagrant boy, the 
attendant on a relative, of whose sane judgment he 
himself had not the highest opinion ; but now he had 
become, he knew not why, or wherefore, or to what 
extent, the custodier, as the Scottish phrase went, 
of some important state secret, in the safe keeping 
of which the Eegent himself was concerned. It did 
not diminish from, but rather added to, the interest 
of a situation so unexpected, that Eoland himself 


THE ABBOT. 


269 


did not perfectly understand wherein he stood com 
mitted by the state secrets, in which he had unwit- 
tingly become participator. On the contrary, he 
felt like one who looks on a romantic landscape, of 
which he sees the features for the first time, and 
then obscured with mist and driving tempest. The 
imperfect glimpse which the eye catches of rocks, 
trees, and other objects around him, adds double 
dignity to these shrouded mountains and darkened 
abysses, of which the height, depth, and extent, are 
left to imagination. 

But mortals, especially at the well-appetized age 
which precedes twenty years, are seldom so much 
engaged either by real or conjectural subjects of 
speculation, but that their earthly wants claim their 
hour of attention. And with many a smile did our 
hero, so the reader may term him if he will, hail 
the re-appearance of his friend Adam Woodcock, 
bearing on one wooden platter a tremendous por- 
tion of boiled beef, and on another a plentiful al- 
lowance of greens, or rather what the Scotch call 
lang-kale. A groom followed with bread, salt, and 
the other means of setting forth a meal ; and when 
they had both placed on the oaken table what they 
bore in their hands, the falconer observed, that since 
he knew the court, it had got harder and harder 
every day to the poor gentlemen and yeomen re- 
tainers, but that now it was an absolute flaying of 
a flea for the hide and tallow. Such thronging to 
the wicket, and such churlish answers, and such bare 
beef-bones, such a shouldering at the buttery-hatch 
and cellarage, and nought to be gained beyond small 
insuflicient single ale, or at best with a single straike 
of malt to counterbalance a double allowance of 
^ater — “ By the mass, though, my young friend,” 


270 


THE ABBOT. 


said he, while he saw the food disappearing fast un- 
der Koland’s active exertions, “ it is not so well to 
lament for former times as to take the advantage 
of the present, else we are like to lose on both 
sides.” 

So saying, Adam Woodcock drew his chair to- 
wards the table, unsheathed his knife, (for every one 
carried that minister of festive distribution for him- 
self,) and imitated his young companion’s example, 
who for the moment had lost his anxiety for the 
future in the eager satisfaction of an appetite sharp- 
ened by youth and abstinence. 

In truth, they made, though the materials were 
sufficiently simple, a very respectable meal, at the 
expense of the royal allowance ; and Adam Wood- 
cock, notwithstanding the deliberate censure which 
he had passed on the household beer of the palace, 
had taken the fourth deep draught of the black-jack 
ere he remembered him that he had spoken in its dis- 
praise. Then, flinging himself jollily and luxuri- 
ously back in an old danske elbow-chair, and look- 
ing with careless glee towards the page, extending 
at the same time his right leg, and stretching the 
other easily over it, he reminded his companion 
that he had not yet heard the ballad which he 
had made for the Abbot of Unreason’s revel. And 
accordingly he struck merrily up with 

“The Pope, that pagan full of pride, 

Has blinded us full lang ” 

Koland Graeme, who felt no great delight, as may 
be supposed, in the falconer’s satire, considering its 
subject, began to snatch up his mantle, and fling it 
around his shoulders, an action which instantly in- 
terrupted the ditty of Adam Woodcock. 


THE ABBOT. 


271 


"Where the vengeance are you going now,” he 
said, “ thou restless boy ? — Thou hast quicksilver 
in the veins of thee to a certainty, and canst no more 
abide any douce and sensible communing, than a 
hoodless hawk would keep perched on my wrist ! ” 

"Why, Adam,” replied the page, "if you must 
needs know, I am about to take a walk and look at 
this fair city. One may as well be still mewed up 
in the old castle of the lake, if one is to sit the live- 
long night between four walls, and hearken to old 
ballads.” 

" It is a new ballad — the Lord help thee ! ” re- 
plied Adam, “ and that one of the best that ever was 
matched with a rousing chorus.” 

" Be it so,” said the page, " I will hear it ano- 
ther day, when the rain is dashing against the win- 
dows, and there is neither steed stamping, nor spur 
jingling, nor feather waving in the neighbourhood, 
to mar my marking it well. But, even now, I want 
to be in the world, and to look about me.” 

“ But the never a stride shall you go without 
me,” said the falconer, " until the Eegent shall take 
you whole and sound off my hand ; and so, if you 
will, we may go to the hostelry of Saint MichaeTs, 
and there you will see company enough, but through 
the casement, mark you me ; for as to rambling 
through the street to seek Seytons and Leslies, 
and having a dozen holes drilled in your new 
jacket with rapier and poniard, I will yield no way 
to it.” 

" To the hostelry of Saint Michael’s, then, with 
all my heart,” said the page ; and they left the pal- 
ace accordingly, rendered to the sentinels at the 
gate, who had now taken their posts for the even- 
ing, a strict account of their names and business, 


272 


THE ABBOT. 


were dismissed through a small wicket of the close- 
barred portal, and soon reached the inn or hostelry 
of Saint Michael, which stood in a large court-yard, 
off the main street, close under the descent of the 
Calton-hill. The place, wide, waste, and uncom- 
fortable, resembled rather an Eastern caravansary, 
where men found shelter indeed, but were obliged 
to supply themselves with every thing else, than 
one of our modern inns ; 

“ Where not one comfort shall to those be lost, 

Who never ask, or never feel, the coat.” 

But still, to the inexperienced eye of Boland 
Graeme, the bustle and confusion of this place of 
public resort furnished excitement and amusement. 
In the large room, into which they had rather found 
their own way than been ushered by mine host, tra- 
vellers and natives of the city entered and departed, 
met and greeted, gamed or drank together, form- 
ing the strongest contrast to the stern and mono- 
tonous order and silence with which matters were 
conducted in the well-ordered household of the 
Knight of Avenel. Altercation of every kind, from 
brawling to jesting, was going on among the groups 
around them, and yet the noise and mingled voices 
seemed to disturb no one, and indeed to be noticed 
by no others than by those who composed the group 
to which the speaker belonged. 

The falconer passed through the . apartment to a 
projecting latticed window, which formed a sort of 
recess from the room itself; and having here en- 
sconced himself and his companion, he called for 
some refreshments; and a tapster, after he had 
shouted for the twentieth time, accommodated him 
with the remains of a cold capon and a neat’s tongue, 


THE ABBOT. 


273 


together with a pewter stoup of weak French vin- 
de-pays. “Fetch a stoup of brandy-wine, thou 
knave. — We will be jolly to-night, Master Eoland,” 
said he, when he saw himself thus accommodated, 
“ and let’ care come to-morrow.” 

But Eoland had eaten too lately to enjoy the 
good cheer ; and feeling his curiosity much sharper 
than his appetite, he made it his choice to look out 
of the lattice, which overhung a large yard sur- 
rounded by the stables of the hostelry, and fed his 
eyes on the busy sight beneath, while Adam Wood- 
cock, after he had compared his companion to the 
“ Laird of Macfarlane’s geese, who liked their play 
better than their meat,” disposed of his time with 
the aid of cup and trencher, occasionally humming 
the burden of his birth-strangled ballad, and beat- 
ing time to it with his fingers on the little round 
table. In this exercise he was frequently inter- 
rupted by the exclamations of his companion, as he 
saw something new in the yard beneath, to attract 
and interest him. 

It was a busy scene, for the number of gentlemen 
and nobles who were now crowded into the city, 
had filled all spare stables and places of public re- 
ception with their horses and military attendants. 
There were some score of yeomen dressing their 
own or their masters’ horses in the yard, whistling, 
singing, laughing, and upbraiding each other, in a 
style of wit which the good order of Avenel Castle 
rendered strange to Eoland Graeme’s ears. Others 
were busy repairing their own arms, or cleaning 
those of their masters. One fellow, having just 
bought a bundle of twenty spears, was sitting in a 
corner, employed in painting the white staves of the 
weapons with yellow and vermilion. Other lackeys 

VOL. I. — 18 


274 


THE ABBOT. 


led large stag-hounds, or wolf-dogs, of noble race, 
carefully muzzled to prevent accidents to passen- 
gers. All came and went, mixed together and sepa- 
rated, under the delighted eye of the page, whose 
imagination had not even conceived a scene so gaily 
diversified with the objects he had most pleasure in 
beholding ; so that he was perpetually breaking the 
quiet reverie of honest Woodcock, and the mental 
progress which he was making in his ditty, by ex- 
claiming, “Look here, Adam — look at the bonny 
bay horse — Saint Anthony, what a gallant forehand 
he hath got ! — and see the goodly grey, which yon- 
der fellow in the frieze-jacket is dressing as awk- 
wardly as if he had never touched aught but a cow 

— I would I were nigh him to teach him his trade ! 

— And lo you, Adam, the gay Milan armour that 
the yeoman is scouring, all steel and silver, like our 
Knight’s prime suit, of which old Wingate makes 
such account — And see to yonder pretty wench, 
Adam, who comes tripping through them all with 
her milkpail — I warrant me she has had a long 
walk from the loaning ; she has a stammel waist- 
coat, like your favourite Cicely Sunderland, Master 
Adam ! ” 

“ By my hood, lad,” answered the falconer, ‘‘ it 
is well for thee thou wert brought up where grace 
grew. Even in the Castle of Avenel thou wert a 
wild-blood enough, but hadst thou been nurtured 
here, within a flight-shot of the Court, thou hadst 
been the veriest crack-hemp of a page that ever 
wore feather in thy bonnet or steel by thy side : 
truly, I wish it may end well with thee.” 

“ Nay, but leave thy senseless humming and 
drumming, old Adam, and come to the window ere 
thou hast drenched thy senses in the pint-pot there. 


THE ABBOT. 


275 


See here comes a merry minstrel with his crowd, 
and a wench with him, that dances with hells at her 
ankles ; and see, the yeomen and pages leave their 
horses and the armour they were cleaning, and 
gather round, as is very natural, to hear the music. 
Come, old Adam, we will thither too.” 

“ You shall call me cutt if I do go down,” said 
Adam ; “ you are near as good minstrelsy as the 
stroller can make, if you had but the grace to listen 
to it.” 

“ But the wench in the stammel waistcoat is 
stopping too, Adam — by Heaven, they are going to 
dance ! Frieze-jacket wants to dance with stammel- 
waistcoat, but she is coy and recusant.” 

Then suddenly changing his tone of levity into 
one of deep interest and surprise, he exclaimed, 
“ Queen of Heaven ! what is it that I see !” and then 
remained silent. 

The sage Adam Woodcock, who was in a sort of 
languid degree amused with the page’s exclama- 
tions, even while he professed to despise them, be- 
came at length rather desirous to set his tongue 
once more a-going, that he might enjoy the superi- 
ority afforded by his own intimate familiarity with 
all the circumstances which excited in his young 
companion’s mind so much wonderment. 

“ Well, then,” he said at last, “ what is it you 
do see. Master Koland, that you have become mute 
all of a sudden ? ” 

Eoland returned no answer. 

I say. Master Eoland Graeme,” said the falconer, 
“ it is manners in my country for a man to ^peak 
when he is spoken to.” 

Eoland Graeme remained silent. 

** The murrain is in the boy,” said Adam Wood' 


276 


THE ABBOT. 


cock, “ he has stared out his eyes and talked his 
tongue to pieces, I think ! ’’ 

The falconer hastily drank off his can of wine, 
and came to Eoland, who stood like a statue, with 
his eyes eagerly bent on the court-yard, though Adam 
Woodcock was unable to detect amongst the joyous 
scene which it exhibited aught that could deserve 
such devoted attention. 

“ The lad is mazed ! ” said the falconer to himself. 

But Eoland Graeme had good reasons for his sur- 
prise, though they were not such as he could com- 
municate to his companion. 

The touch of the Old minstrel’s instrument, for he 
had already begun to play, had drawn in several 
auditors from the street, when one entered the gate 
of the yard, whose appearance exclusively arrested 
the attention of Eoland Graeme. He was of his 
own age, or a good deal younger, and from his dress 
and bearing might be of the same rank and calling, 
having all the air of coxcombry and pretension, 
which accorded with a handsome, though slight 
and low figure, and an elegant dress, in part hid 
by a large purple cloak. As he entered, he cast a 
glance up towards the windows, and, to his extreme 
astonishment, under the purple velvet bonnet and 
white feather, Eoland recognised the features so 
deeply impressed on his memory, the bright and 
clustered tresses, the laughing full blue eyes, the 
well-formed eyebrows, the nose, with the slightest 
possible inclination to be aquiline, the ruby lip, of 
which an arch and half-suppressed smile seemed 
the habitual expression — in short, the form and 
face of Catherine Seyton ; in man’s attire, however, 
and mimicking, as it seemed not unsuccessfully, the 
bearing of a youthful but forward page. 


THE ABBOT. 


277 


“ Saint George and Saint Andrew ! ” exclaimed 
the mazed Eoland Graeme to himself, “was there 
ever such an audacious quean ! — she seems a little 
ashamed of her mummery too, for she holds the lap 
of her cloak to her face, and her colour is height- 
ened — but Santa Maria, how she threads the throng, 
with as firm and bold a step as if she had never tied 
petticoat round her waist ! — Holy saints ! she holds 
up her riding-rod as if she would lay it about some 
of their ears, that stand most in her way — by the 
hand of my father! she bears herself like the very 
model of pagehood. — Hey ! what ! sure she will 
not strike frieze-jacket in earnest?” But he was 
not long left in doubt ; for the lout whom he had 
before repeatedly noticed, standing in the way of 
the bustling page, and maintaining his place with 
clownish obstinacy or stupidity, the advanced riding- 
rod was, without a moment’s hesitation, sharply ap- 
plied to his shoulders, in a manner which made him 
spring aside, rubbing the part of the body which 
had received so unceremonious a hint that it was in 
the way of his betters. The party injured growled 
forth an oath or two of indignation, and Eoland 
Graeme began to think of flying down stairs to the 
assistance of the translated Catherine ; but the laugh 
of the yard was against frieze- jacket, which indeed 
had, in those days, small chance of fair play in a 
quarrel with velvet and embroidery; so that the 
fellow, who was a menial in the inn, slunk back to 
finish his task of dressing the bonny grey, laughed 
at by all, but most by the wench in the stammel 
waistcoat, his fellow-servant, who, to crown his dis- 
grace, had the cruelty to cast an applauding smile 
upon the author of the injury, while, with a freedom 
more like the milkmaid of the town than she of the 


278 


THE ABBOT. 


plains, she accosted him with — Is there any one 
you want here, my pretty gentleman, that you seem 
in such haste ? ” 

“I seek a slip of a lad,” said the seeming gal- 
lant, “ with a sprig of holly in his cap, black hair, 
and black eyes, green jacket, and the air of a coun- 
try coxcomb — I have sought him through every 
close and alley in the Canongate, the fiend gore 
him ! ” 

“Why, God-a-mercy, Nun!” muttered Koland 
Graeme, much bewildered. 

“ I will enquire him presently out for your fair 
young worship,” said the wench of the inn. • 

“ Do,” said the gallant squire, “ and if you bring 
me to him, you shall have a groat to-night, and a 
kiss on Sunday when you have on a cleaner kirtle.” 

“ Why, God-a-mercy, Nun I ” again muttered 
Eoland, “ this is a note above E La.” 

In a moment after, the servant entered the room, 
and ushered in the object of his surprise. 

While the disguised vestal looked with una- 
bashed brow, and bold and rapid glance of her eye, 
through the various parties in the large old room, 
Eoland Graeme, who felt an internal awkward sense 
of bashful confusion, which he deemed altogether 
unworthy of the bold and dashing character to 
which he aspired, determined not to be browbeaten 
and put down by this singular female, but to meet 
her with a glance of recognition so sly, so penetrat- 
ing, so expressively humorous, as should show her 
at once he was in possession of her secret and mas- 
ter of her fate, and should compel her to humble 
herself towards him, at least into the look and man- 
ner of respectful and deprecating observance. 

This was extremely well planned; but just as 


THE ABBOT. 


279 


Roland had called up the knowing glance, the sup- 
pressed smile, the shrewd intelligent look, which 
was to ensure his triumph, he encountered the bold, 
firm, and steady gaze of his brother or sister page, 
who, casting on him a falcon glance, and recognis- 
ing him at once as the object of his search, walked 
up with the most unconcerned look, the most free 
and undaunted composure, and hailed him with 
“ You, Sir Holly-top, I would speak with you.” 

The steady coolness and assurance with which 
these words were uttered, although the voice was 
the very voice he had heard at the old convent, and 
although the features more nearly resembled those 
of Catherine when seen close than when viewed 
from a distance, produced, nevertheless, such a con- 
fusion in Roland’s mind, that he became uncertain 
whether he was not still under a mistake from the 
beginning; the knowing shrewdness which should 
have animated his visage faded into a sheepish bash- 
fulness, and the half-suppressed but most intelli- 
gible smile, became the senseless giggle of one who 
laughs to cover his own disorder of ideas. 

“ Do they understand a Scotch tongue in thy 
country. Holly-top ? ” said this marvellous specimen 
of metamorphosis. “ I said I would speak with thee.” 

“ What is your business with my comrade, my 
young chick of the game ? ” said Adam Woodcock, 
willing to step in to his companion’s assistance, 
though totally at a loss to account for the sudden 
disappearance of all Roland’s usual smartness and 
presence of mind. 

“ Nothing to you, my old cock of the perch,” 
replied the gallant ; “ go mind your hawks’ castings. 
I guess by your bag and your gauntlet that yon 
are squire of the body to a sort of kites.” 


28 o 


THE ABBOT. 


He laughed as he spoke, and the laugh reminded 
Eoland so irresistibly of the hearty fit of risibility 
in which Catherine had indulged at his expense 
when they first met in the old nunnery, that he 
could scarce help exclaiming, “Catherine Seyton, 
by Heavens ! ” — He checked the exclamation, how- 
ever, and only said, “ I think, sir, we two are not 
totally strangers to each other.” 

“We must have met in our dreams then,” said 
the youth ; “ and my days are too busy to remem- 
ber what I think on at nights.” 

“ Or apparently to remember upon one day those 
whom you may have seen on the preceding eve,” 
said Eoland Graeme. 

The youth in his turn cast on him a look of some 
surprise, as he replied, “ I know no more of what 
you mean than does the horse I ride on — if there 
be offence in your words, you shall find me as ready 
to take it as any lad in Lothian.” 

“You know well,” said Eoland, “though it 
pleases you to use the language of a stranger, that 
with you I can have no purpose to quarrel.” 

“ Let me do mine errand then, and be rid of 
you,” said the page. “ Step hither this way, out of 
that old leathern fist’s hearing.” 

They walked into the recess of the window, which 
Eoland had left upon the youth’s entrance into the 
apartment. The messenger then turned his back 
on the company, after casting a hasty and sharp 
glance around to see if they were observed. Eoland 
did the same, and the page in the purple mantle 
thus addressed him, taking at the same time from 
under his cloak a short but beautifully-wrought 
sword, with the hilt and ornaments upon the sheath 
of silver, massively chased and over-gilded — “I 


THE ABBOT. 


281 

bring you this weapon from a friend, who gives it 
^ you under the solemn condition, that you will not 
unsheathe it until you are commanded by your right- 
ful Sovereign. For your warmth of temper is 
known, and the presumption with which you in- 
trude yourself into the quarrels of others ; andj 
therefore, this is laid upon you as a penance by 
those who wish you well, and whose hand will 
influence your destiny for good or for evil. This 
is what I was charged to tell you. So if you will 
give a fair word for a fair sword, and pledge your 
promise, with hand and glove, good and well; and if 
not, I will carry back Caliburn to those who sent it. 

“ And may I not ask who these are ? ” said Ko- 
land Graeme, admiring at the same time the beauty 
of the weapon thus offered him. 

“ My commission in no way leads me to answer 
such a question,” said he of the purple mantle. 

“ But if I am offended,” said Eoland, “ may I not 
draw to defend myself ? ” 

“ Not this weapon,” answered the sword-bearer ; 
“ but you have your own at command, and, besides, 
for what do you wear your poniard ? ” 

“For no good,” said Adam Woodcock, who had 
now approached close to them, “ and that I can 
witness as well as any one.” 

« Stand back, fellow,” said the messenger; “thou 
hast an intrusive curious face, that will come by a 
buffet if it is found where it has no concern.” 

“ A buffet, my young Master Malapert ? said 
Adam, drawing back, however ; “ best keep ^down 
fist, or, by Our Lady, buffet will beget buffet ! 

“ Be patient, Adam Woodcock,” said Eoland 
Gr^me ; — “ and let me pray you, fair sir, since by 
such addition you choose for the present to be ad- 


282 


THE ABBOT. 


dressed, may I not barely unsheathe this weapon, 
in pure simplicity of desire to know whether so fair 
a hilt and scabbard are matched with a befitting 
blade?” 

“ By no manner of means,” said the messenger ; 
“at a word, you must take it under the promise 
that you never draw it until you receive the com- 
mands of your lawful Sovereign, or you must leave 
it alone.” 

“ Under that condition, and coming from your 
friendly hand, I accept of the sword,” said Koland, 
taking it from his hand ; “ but credit me, that if we 
are to work together in any weighty emprise, as I 
am induced to believe, some confidence and open- 
ness on your part will be necessary to give the right 
impulse to my zeal — I press for no more at present, 
it is enough that you understand me.” 

“ I understand you ! ” said the page, exhibiting 
the appearance of unfeigned surprise in his turn, — 
“ Eenounce me if I do ! — here you stand jiggeting, 
and sniggling, and looking cunning, as if there were 
some mighty matter of intrigue and common under- 
standing betwixt you and me, whom you never set 
your eyes on before ! ” 

• “ What ! ”• said Eoland Graeme, “ will you deny 
that we have met before ? ” 

“ Marry that I will, in any Christian court,” said 
the other page. 

“ And will you also deny,” said Eoland, “ that it 
was recommended to us to study each other’s features 
well, that in whatever disguise the time might im- 
pose upon us, each should recognise in the other the 
secret ^gent of a mighty work ? Do not you remem- 
ber, that Sister Magdalen and Dame Bridget ” 

The messenger here interrupted him, shrugging up 


THE ABBOT. 


283 

his shoulders with a look of compassion, “ Bridget 
and Magdalen ! why, this is madness and dreaming ! 
Hark ye. Master Holly-top, your wits are gone on 
wool-gathering ; comfort yourself with a caudle, 
thatch your brain-sick noddle with a woollen night- 
cap, and so God he with you ! ” 

As he concluded this polite parting address, Adam 
Woodcock, who was again seated by the table on 
which stood the now empty can, said to him, “ Will 
you drink a cup, young man, in the way of courtesy, 
now you have done your errand, and listen to a good 
song ? ” and without waiting for an answer, he com- 
menced his ditty, — 

The Pope, that pagan full of pride, 

Hath blinded us full long ” 

It is probable that the good wine had made some 
innovation in the falconer’s brain, otherwise he would 
have recollected the danger of introducing any thing 
like political or polemical pleasantry into a public 
assemblage, at a time when men’s minds were in a 
state of great irritability. To do him justice, he 
perceived his error, and stopped short so soon as he 
saw that the word Pope had at once interrupted the 
separate conversations of the various parties which 
were assembled in the apartment ; and that many 
began to draw themselves up, bridle, look big, and 
prepare to take part in the impending brawl ; while 
others, more decent and cautious persons, hastily 
paid down their lawing, and prepared to leave the 
place ere bad should come to worse. 

And to worse it was soon likely to come ; for no 
sooner did Woodcock’s ditty reach the ear of the 
stranger page, than, uplifting his riding-rod, he ex- 
claimed, “ He who speaks irreverently of the Holy 


284 


THE ABBOT. 


Father of the church in my presence, is the cub of 
a heretic wolf-bitch, and I will switch him as I 
would a mongrel cur ! ” 

“And i will break thy young pate,” said Adam, 
“ if thou darest to lift a finger to me.” And then, 
in defiance of the young Drawcansir’s threats, with 
a stout heart and dauntless accent, he again uplifted 
the stave, 

“ The Pope, that pagan full of pride, 

Hath blinded” 

But Adam was able to proceed no farther, being 
himself unfortunately blinded by a stroke of the 
impatient youth’s switch across his eyes. Enraged 
at once by the smart and the indignity, the falconer 
started up, and darkling as he was, — for his eyes 
watered too fast to permit his seeing any thing, — 
he would soon have been at close grips with his in- 
solent adversary, had not Eoland Grseme, contrary 
to his nature, played for once the prudent man and 
the peace-maker, and thrown himself- betwixt them, 
imploring Woodcock’s patience. “You know not,” 
he said, “ with whom you have to do. — And thou,” 
addressing the messenger, who stood scornfully 
laughing at Adam’s rage, “get thee gone, who- 
ever thou art; if thou be’st what I guess thee, 
thou well knowest there are earnest reasons why 
thou shouldst.” 

“ Thou hast hit it right for once. Holly-top,” said 
the gallant, “ though I guess you drew your bow at 
a venture. — Here, host, let this yeoman have a 
pottle of wine to wash the smart out of his eyes — 
and there is a French crown for him.’' So saying, 
he threw ther piece of money on the table, and left 
the apartment, with a quick yet steady pace, looking 


THE ABBOT. 


28s 

firmly at right and left, as if to defy interruption: 
and, snapping his fingers at two or three respectable 
burghers, who, declaring it was a shame that any 
one should be suffered to rant and ruffle in defence 
of the Pope, were labouring to find the hilts of their 
swords, which had got for the present unhappily 
entangled in the folds of their cloaks. But, as the 
adversary was gone ere any of them had reached 
his weapon, they did not think it necessary to un- 
sheathe cold iron, but merely observed to each other, 
“ This is more than masterful violence, to see a poor 
man stricken in the face just for singing a ballad 
against the Whore of Babylon ! If the Pope's cham- 
pions are to be bangsters in our very change-houses, 
we shall soon have the old shavelings back again." 

“The provost should look to it,” said another, 
“and have some five or six armed with partisans, 
to come in upon the first whistle, to teach these 
gallants their lesson. For, look you, neighbour Lug- 
leather, it is not for decent householders like our- 
selves to be brawling with the godless grooms and 
pert pages of the nobles, that are bred up to little 
else save bloodshed and blasphemy.” 

“For all that, neighbour,” said Lugleather, “I 
would have curried that youngster as properly as 
ever I curried a lamb’s hide, had not the hilt of 
my bilbo been for the instant beyond my grasp ; 
and before I could turn my girdle, gone was my 
master!” 

“Ay,” said the others, “the devil go with him, 
and peace abide with us — I give my rede, neigh- 
bours, that we pay the lawing, and be stepping home- 
ward, like brother and brother ; for old Saint Giles’s 
is tolling curfew, and the street grows dangerous 
at night.’' 


286 


THE ABBOT. 


With that the good burghers adjusted their cloaks, 
and prepared for their departure, while he that seemed 
the briskest of the three, laying his hand on his 
Andrea Ferrara, observed, “ that they that spoke in 
praise of the Pope on the High-gate of Edinburgh, 
had best bring the sword of Saint Peter to defend 
them.” 

While the ill-humour excited by the insolence of 
the young aristocrat was thus evaporating in empty 
menace, Eoland Graeme had to control the far more 
serious indignation of Adam Woodcock. “ Why, 
man, it was but a switch across the mazzard — blow 
your nose, dry your eyes, and you will see all the 
better for it.” 

“ By this light, which I cannot see,” said Adam 
Woodcock, “ thou hast been a false friend to me, 
young man — neither taking up my rightful quarrel, 
nor letting me fight it out myself.” 

“Fy for shame, Adam Woodcock,” replied the 
youth, determined to turn the tables on him, and 
become in turn the counsellor of good order and 
peaceable demeanour — “I say, fy for shame ! — 
Alas, that you will speak thus ! Here are you sent 
with me, to prevent my innocent youth getting into 
snares ” 

“ I wish your innocent youth were cut short with 
a halter, with all my heart ! ” said Adam, who began 
to see which way the admonition tended. 

— “ And instead of setting before me,” continued 
Eoland, “ an example of patience and sobriety be- 
coming the falconer of Sir Halbert Glendinning, you 
quaff me off I know not how many flagons of ale, 
besides a gallon of wine, and a full measure of strong 
waters ! ” 

“ It was but one small pottle,” said poor Adam, 


THE ABBOT. 287 

whom consciousness of his own indiscretion now 
reduced to a merely defensive warfare. 

“ It was enough to pottle you handsomely, how- 
ever,” said the page — “ And then, instead of going 
to bed to sleep off your liquor, must you sit singing 
your roistering songs about popes and pagans, till 
you have got your eyes almost switched out of your 
head ; and but for my interference, whom your 
drunken ingratitude accuses of deserting you, yon 
galliard would have cut your throat, for he was 
whipping out a whinger as broad as my hand, and 
as sharp as a razor — And these are lessons for an 
inexperienced youth ! — Oh, Adam ! out upon you ! 
out upon you ! ” 

“ Marry, amen, and with all my heart,” said Adam ; 
“ out upon my folly for expecting any thing but im- 
pertinent raillery from a page like thee, that if he 
saw his father in a scrape, would laugh at him, in- 
stead of lending him aid ! ” 

“Nay, but I will lend you aid,” said the page, 
still laughing, “ that is, I will lend thee aid to thy 
chamber, good Adam, where thou shalt sleep off 
wine and ale, ire and indignation, and awake the 
next morning with as much fair wit as nature has 
blessed thee withal. Only one thing I will warn 
thee, good Adam, that henceforth and for ever, when 
thou railest at me for being somewhat hot at hand, 
and rather too prompt to out with poniard or so, thy' 
admonition shall serve as a prologue to the memo- 
rable adventure of the switching of Saint Michael’s.” 

With such condoling expressions he got the crest- 
fallen falconer to his bed, and then retired to his 
own pallet, where it was some time ere he could fall 
asleep. If the messenger whom he had seen were 
really Catherine Seyton, what a masculine virago 


288 


TRt ABBOT. 


and termagant must she be ! and stored with what 
an inimitable command of insolence and assurance ! 
— The brass on her brow would furbish the front of 
twenty pages ; “ and I should know,” thought Koland, 
" what that amounts to — And yet, her features, her 
look, her light gait, her laughing eye, the art with 
which she disposed the mantle to show no more of 
her limbs than needs must be seen — lam glad she 
had at least that grace left — the voice, the smile — 
it must have been Catherine Seyton, or the devil in 
her likeness ! One thing is good, I have silenced 
the eternal predications of that ass, Adam Wood- 
cock, who has set up for being a preacher and a 
governor over me, so soon as he has left the hawks* 
mew behind him.** 

And with this comfortable reflection, joined to the 
happy indifference which youth hath for the events 
of the morrow, Koland Graeme fell fast asleep. 


CHAPTEK XX. 


Now have you reft me from my staff, my guide, 

Who taught my youth, as men teach untamed falcons, 

To use my strength discreetly — I am reft 
Of comrade and of counsel ! 

Old Play. 

In the grey of the next morning’s dawn, there was 
a loud knocking at the gate of the hostelry ; and 
those without, proclaiming that they came in the 
name of the Eegent, were instantly admitted. A 
moment or two afterwards, Michael Wing-the-wind 
stood by the bedside of our travellers. 

** Up ! up ! ” he said, “ there is no slumber where 
Murray hath work ado.” 

Both sleepers sprung up, and began to dress 
themselves. 

“ You, old friend,” said Wing-the-wind to Adam 
Woodcock, “must to horse instantly, with this 
packet to the Monks of Kennaquhair; and with 
this,” delivering them as he spoke, “to the Knight 
of Avenel.” 

“ As much as commanding the monks to annul 
their election. I’ll warrant me, of an Abbot,” quoth 
Adam Woodcock, as he put the packets into his 
bag, “ and charging my master to see it done — To 
hawk at one brother with another, is less than fair 
play, me thinks.” 

“Fash not thy beard about it, old boy,” said 
Michael,“but betake thee to the saddle presently; 
for if these orders are not obeyed, there will be bare 

VOL. I. — 19 


290 


THE ABBOT. 


walls at the Kirk of Saint Mary’s, and it may be at 
the Castle of Avenel to boot ; for I heard my Lord 
of Morton loud with the Eegent, and we are at a 
pass that we cannot stand with him anent trifles.” 

“ But,” said Adam, touching the Abbot of Un- 
reason — what say they to that outbreak ? — An 
they be shrewishly disposed, I were better pitch the 
packets to Satan, and take the other side of the 
Border for my bield.” 

“ 0, that was passed over as a jest, since there 
was little harm done. — But, hark thee, Adam,” 
continued his comrade, “ if there were a dozen vacant 
abbacies in your road, whether of jest or earnest, 
reason or unreason, draw thou never one of their 
mitres over thy brows — The time is not fitting, 
man ! — besides, our Maiden longs to clip the neck 
of a fat churchman.” 

“She shall never sheer mine in that capacity,” 
said the falconer, while he knotted the kerchief in 
two or three double folds around his sunburnt bull- 
neck, calling out at the same time, “ Master Boland, 
Master Boland, make haste ! we must back to perch 
and mew, and, thank heaven more than our own 
wit, with our bones whole, and without a stab in 
the stomach.” 

“ Nay, but,” said Wing-the-wind, “ the page goes 
not back with you, the Begent has other employment 
for him.” 

“ Saints and sorrows ! ” exclaimed the falconer — 
“ Master Boland Graeme to remain' here, and I to 
return to Avenel ! — Why, it cannot be — the child 
cannot manage himself in this wide world without 
me, and I question if he will stoop to any other 
whistle than mine own ; there are times I myself 
can hardly bring him to my lure.” 


THE ABBOT. 


291 


It was at Eoland’s tongue’s end to say something 
concerning the occasion they had for using mutually 
each other’s prudence, but the real anxiety which 
Adam evinced at parting with him, took away his 
disposition to such ungracious raillery. The fal- 
coner did not altogether escape, however, for, in 
turning his face towards the lattice, his friend 
Michael caught a glimpse of it, and exclaimed, “ I 
prithee, Adam Woodcock, what hast thou been 
doing with these eyes of thine ? They are swelled 
to the starting from the socket ! ” 

“ Nought in the world,” said he, after casting a 
deprecating glance at Eoland Graeme, “ but the effect 
of sleeping in this d — d truckle without a pillow.” 

“Why, Adam Woodcock, thou must be grown 
strangely dainty,” said his old companion ; “ I have 
known thee sleep all night with no better pillow than 
a bush of ling, and start up with the sun, as gleg as 
a falcon ; and now thine eyes resemble ” 

“ Tush, man, what signifies how mine eyes look 
now ? ” said Adam — “ let us but roast a crab-apple, 
pour a pottle of ale on it, and bathe our throats 
withal, thou shalt see a change in me.” 

“And thou wilt be in heart to sing thy jolly 
ballad about the Pope,” said his comrade. 

“ Ay, that I will,” replied the falconer, “ that is, 
when we have left this quiet town five miles behind 
us, if you will take your hobby and ride so far on 
my way.” 

“ Nay, that I may not,” said Michael — “I can 
but stop to partake your morning’s draught, and 
see you fairly to horse — I will see that they saddle 
them, and toast the crab for thee, without loss of 
time.” 

During his absence the falconer took^the page by 


292 


THE ABBOT. 


the hand — “ May I never hood hawk again,” said 
the good-natured fellow, “if I am not as sorry to 
part with you as if you were a child of mine own, 
craving pardon for the freedom — I cannot tell what 
makes me love you so much, unless it be for the 
reason that I loved the vicious devil of a brown 
galloway nag, whom my master the Knight called 
Satan, till Master Warden changed his name to 
Seyton ; for he said it was over boldness to call a 
beast after the King of Darkness ” 

“ And,” said the page, “ it was over boldness in 
him, I trow, to call a vicious brute after a noble 
family.” 

“ Well,” proceeded Adam, “ Seyton or Satan, I 
loved that nag over every other horse in the stable 
— There was no sleeping on his back — he was for 
ever fidgeting, bolting, rearing, biting, kicking, and 
giving you work to do, and may be the measure 
of your back on the heather to the boot of it all. 
And I think I love you better than any lad in the 
castle, for the self-same qualities.” 

“ Thanks, thanks, kind Adam. I regard myself 
bound to you for the good estimation in which you 
hold me.” 

“ Kay, interrupt me not,” said the falconer — ■ 
“ Satan was a good nag — But, I say, I tl^nk I shall 
call the two eyasses after you, the one Boland, and 
the other Graeme ; and, while Adam Woodcock 
lives, be sure you have a friend — Here is to thee, 
my dear son.” 

Boland most heartily returned the grasp of the 
hand, and Woodcock, having taken a deep draught, 
continued his farewell speech. 

“There are three things I warn you against, 
Boland, now that you are to tread this weary world 


THE ABBOT. 


293 


without my experience to assist you. In the first 
place, never draw dagger on slight occasion — every 
man’s doublet is not so well stuffed as a certain 
abbot’s that you wot of. Secondly, fly not at every 
pretty girl, like a merlin at a thrush — you will not 
always win a gold chain for your labour — and, by 
the way, here I return to you your fanfarona — keep 
it close, it is weighty, and may benefit you at a 
pinch more ways than one. Thirdly, and to con- 
clude, as our worthy preacher says, beware of the 
pottle-pot — it has drenched the judgment of wiser 
men than you. I could bring some instances of it, 
but I dare ‘say it needeth not ; for if you should 
forget your own mishaps, you will scarce fail to 
remember mine — And so farewell, my dear son.” 

Eoland returned his good wishes, and failed not 
to send his humble duty to his kind Lady, charging 
the falconer, at the same time, to express his regret 
that he should have offended her, and his determi- 
nation so to bear him in the world that she would 
not be ashamed of the generous protection she had 
afforded him. 

The falconer embraced his young friend, mounted 
his stout, round-made, trotting nag, which the serv- 
ing-man, who had attended him, held ready at the 
door, and took the road to the southward. A sullen 
and heavy sound echoed from the horse’s feet, as 
if indicating the sorrow of the good-natured rider. 
Every hoof-tread seemed to tap upon Eoland’s heart 
as he heard his comrade withdraw with so*little of 
his usual alert activity, and felt that he was once 
more alone in the world. 

He was roused from his reverie by Michael Wing-, 
the-wind, who reminded him that it was necessary 
they should instantly return to the palace, as my 


294 


THE ABBOT. 


Lord Kegent went to the Sessions early in the morn- 
ing. They went thither accordingly, and Wing-the- 
wind, a favourite old domestic, who was admitted 
nearer to the Kegent’s person and privacy, than 
many whose posts were more ostensible, soon intro- 
duced Graeme into a small matted chamber, where 
he had an audience of the present head of the 
troubled State of Scotland. The Earl of Murray 
was clad in a sad-coloured morning-gown, with a 
cap and slippers of the same cloth, but, even in this 
easy ddshabill^, held his sheathed rapier in his 
hand, a precaution which he adopted when receiv- 
ing strangers, rather in compliance with the earnest 
remonstrances of his friends and partisans, than 
from any personal apprehensions of his own. He 
answered with a silent nod the respectful obeisance 
of the page, and took one or two turns' through the 
small apartment in silence, fixing his keen eye on 
Eoland, as if he wished to penetrate into his very 
soul. At length he broke silence. 

“Your name is, I think, Julian Graeme?”' 

“Eoland Graeme, my lord, not Julian,” replied 
the page. 

“Eight — I was misled by some trick of my 
memory — Eoland Graeme, from the Debateable 
Land. — Eoland, thou knowest the duties which 
belong to a lady’s service?” 

“ I should know them, my lord,” replied Eoland, 
“ having been bred so near the person of my Lady 
of Avedel ; but I trust never more to practise 
them, as the Knight hath promised ” 

“ Be silent, young man,” said the Eegent ; “ I 
am to speak, and you to hear and obey. It is neces- 
sary that, for some space at least, you shall again 
enter into the service of a lady, who, in rank, hath 


THE ABBOT. 


295 


no equal in Scotland ; and this service accomplished, 
I give thee my word as Knight and Prince, that 
it shall open to you a course of ambition, such as 
may well gratify the aspiring wishes of one whom 
circumstances entitle to entertain much higher 
views than thou. I will take thee into my house- 
hold and near to my person, or, at your own choice, 
I will give you the command of a foot-company — 
either is a preferment which the proudest laird 
in the land might be glad to ensure for a second 
son.” 

“ May I presume to ask, my lord,"' said Poland, 
observing the Earl paused for a reply, “to whom 
my poor services are in the first place destined ? ” 
You will be told hereafter,” said the Regent ; 
and then, as if overcoming some internal reluctance 
to speak further himself, he added, “ or why should 
I not myself tell you, that you are about to enter 
into the service of a most illustrious — most un- 
happy lady — into the service of Mary of Scotland.” 

“ Of the Queen, my lord ! ” said 'the page, unable 
to repress his surprise. 

“ Of her who was the Queen ! ” said Murray, with 
a singular mixture of displeasure and embarrassment 
in his tone of voice. “ You must be aware, young 
man, that her son reigns in her stead.” 

He sighed from an emotion, partly natural perhaps, 
and partly assumed. 

“ And am I to attend upon her Grace in her place 
of imprisonment, my lord ? ” again demanded the 
page, with a straightforward and hardy simplicity, 
which somewhat disconcerted the sage and powerful 
statesman. 

“ She is not imprisoned,” answered Murray, 
angrily ; “ God forbid she should — she is only 


296 


THE ABBOT. 


sequestrated from state affairs, and from the business 
of the public, until the world be so effectually settled, 
that she may enjoy her natural and uncontrolled 
freedom, without her royal disposition being exposed 
to the practices of wicked and designing men. It is 
for this purpose,” he added, ''that while she is to 
be furnished, as right is, with such attendance as 
may befit her present secluded state, it becomes 
necessary that those placed around her, are persons 
on whose prudence I can have reliance. You see, 
therefore, you are at once called on to discharge an 
office most honourable in itself, and so to discharge 
it that you may make a friend of the Eegent of 
Scotland. Thou art, I have been told, a singularly 
apprehensive youth ; and I perceive by thy look, 
that thou dost already understand what I would 
say on this matter. In this schedule your particular 
points of duty are set down at length — r but the 
sum required of you is fidelity — I mean fidelity to 
myself and to the state. You are, therefore, to 
watch every attempt which is made, or inclination 
displayed, to open any communication with any 
of the lords who have become banders in the west 
— with Hamilton, Seyton, with Fleming, or the 
like. It is true that my gracious sister, reflecting 
upon the ill chances that have happed to the state 
of this poor kingdom, from evil counsellors who 
have abused her royal nature in time past, hath 
determined to sequestrate herself from state affairs 
in future. But it is our duty, as acting for, and in 
the name of, our infant nephew, to guard against the 
evils which may arise from any mutation or vacil- 
lation in her royal resolutions. Wherefore, it will be 
thy duty to watch, and report to our lady mother, 
whose guest our sister is for the present, whatever 


THE ABBOT. 


297 


may infer a disposition to withdraw her person 
from the place of security in which she is lodged, 
or to open communication with those without. If, 
however, your observation should detect any thing 
of weight, and which may exceed mere suspicion, 
fail not to send notice by an especial messenger to 
me directly, and this ring shall be thy warrant to 
order horse and man on such service. — And now 
begone. If there be half the wit in thy head that 
there is apprehension in thy look, thou fully com- 
prehendest all that I would say — Serve me faith- 
fully, and sure as I am belted earl, thy reward 
shall be great.” 

Roland Graeme made an obeisance, and was about 
to depart. 

The Earl signed to him to remain. " I have trusted 
thee deeply,” he said, “young man, for thou art 
the only one of her suite who has been sent to her 
by my own recommendation. Her gentlewomen are 
of her own nomination — it were too hard to have 
barred her that privilege, though some there were 
who reckoned it inconsistent with sure policy. Thou 
art young and handsome. Mingle in their follies, 
and see they cover not deeper designs under the 
appearance of female levity — if they do mine, do 
thou countermine. For the rest, bear all decorum 
and respect to the person of thy mistress — she is a 
princess, though a most unhappy one, and hath been 
a queen, though now, alas ! no longer such. Pay, 
therefore, to -her all honour and respect, consistent 
with thy fidelity to the King and me — and now, 
farewell. — Yet stay — you travel with Lord Linde- 
say, a man of the old world, rough and honest, 
though untaught ; see that thou offend him not, for 
he is not patient of raillery, and thou, I have heard, 


ME ABBOT. 


298 

art a crack-halter.” This he said with a smile, then 
added, ‘‘I could have wished the Lord Lindesay’s 
mission had been intrusted to some other and more 
gentle noble.” 

“ And wherefore should you wish that, my 
lord ? ” said Morton, who even then entered the 
apartment ; “ the Council have decided for the best 
— we have had but too many proofs of this lady’s 
stubbornness of mind, and the oak that resists the 
sharp steel axe, must be riven with the rugged iron 
wedge. — And this is to be her page ? — My Lord 
Eegent hath doubtless instructed you, young man, 
how you shall guide yourself in these matters; 
I will add but a little hint on my part. You 
are going to the castle of a Douglas, where treach- 
ery never thrives — the first moment of suspicion 
will be the last of your life. My kinsman, Wil- 
liam Douglas, understands no raillery, and if he 
once have cause to think you false, you will waver 
in the wind from the castle battlements ere the 
sun set upon his anger. — And is the lady to have 
an almoner withal ? ” 

" Occasionally, Douglas, ” said the Eegent ; “ it 
were hard to deny the spiritual consolation which 
she thinks essential to her salvation. ” 

“ You are ever too soft-hearted, my lord — 
What ! a false priest to communicate her lamenta- 
tions, not only to our unfriends in Scotland, but to 
the Guises, to Eome, to Spain, and I know not 
where ! ” 

“ Fear not, ” said the Eegent, “ we will take such 
order that no treachery shall happen. ” 

" Look to it then, ” said Morton ; " you know my 
mind respecting the wench you have consented she 
shall receive as a waiting- woman — one of a family, 


THE ABBOT. 


299 

which, of all others, has ever been devoted to her, 
and inimical to us. Had we not been wary, she 
would have been purveyed of a page as much to 
her purpose as her waiting-damsel. I hear a ru- 
mour that an old mad Komish pilgrimer, who 
passes for at least half a saint among them, was 
employed to find a fit subject. ” 

“ We have escaped that danger at least, ” said 
Murray, " and converted it into a point of advan- 
tage, by sending this boy of Glendinning’s — and 
for her waiting-damsel, you cannot grudge her 
one poor maiden instead of her four noble Marys, 
and all their silken train ? ” 

" I care not so much for the waiting-maiden, ” 
said Morton, " but I cannot brook the almoner — 
I think priests of all persuasions are much like 
each other. Here is John Knox, who made such 
a noble puller-down, is ambitious of becoming a 
setter-up, and a founder of schools and colleges out 
of the Abbey lands, and bishops’ rents, and other 
spoils of Eome, which the nobility of Scotland 
have won with their sword and bow, and with 
which he would now endow new hives to sing the 
old drone. ” 

" John is a man of God, ” said the Eegent, “ and 
his scheme is a devout imagination. ” ( 0 ) 

The sedate smile with which this was spoken, 
left it impossible to conjecture whether the words 
were meant in approbation, or in derision, of the 
plan of the Scottish Eeformer. Turning then to 
Eoland Graeme, as if he thought he had been long 
enough a witness of this conversation, he bade him 
get him presently to horse, since my Lord of Lin de- 
say was already mounted. The page made his rev- 
erence, and left the apartment. 


THE ABBOT. 


300 

Guided by Michael Wing-tbe-wind, he found his 
horse ready saddled and prepared for the journey in 
front of the palace porch, where hovered about a 
score of men-at-arms, whose leader showed no small 
symptoms of surly impatience. 

“ Is this the jackanape page for whom we have 
waited thus long ? ” said he to Wing-the-wind. — 
" And my Lord Kuthven will reach the castle long 
before us ! ” 

Michael assented, and added that the boy had 
been detained by the Eegent to receive some part- 
ing instructions. The leader made an inarticulate 
sound in his throat, expressive of sullen acquies- 
cence, and calling to one of his domestic attend- 
ants, “ Edward, ” said he, " take the gallant into 
your charge, and let him speak with no one else. ” 

He then addressed, by the title of Sir Eobert, 
an elderly and respectable-looking gentleman, the 
only one of the party who seemed above the rank 
of a retainer or domestic, and observed that they 
must get to horse with all speed. 

During this discourse, and while they were rid- 
ing slowly along the street of the suburb, Eoland 
had time to examine more accurately the looks and 
figure of the Baron, who was at their head. 

Lord Lindesay of the Byres was rather touched 
than stricken with years. His upright stature and 
strong limbs still showed him fully equal to all 
the exertions and fatigues of war. His thick eye- 
brows, now partially grizzled, lowered over large 
eyes full of dark fire, which seemed yet darker 
from the uncommon depth at which they were set 
in his head. His features, naturally strong and 
harsh, had their sternness exaggerated by one or 
two scars received in battle. These features, natu- 


raE ABBOT. 


301 


rally calculated to express the harsher passions, 
were shaded by an open steel cap, with a project- 
ing front, but having no visor, over the gorget of 
which fell the black and grizzled beard of the grim 
old Baron, and totally hid the lower part of his 
face. The rest of his dress was a loose buff-coat, 
which had once been lined with silk and adorned 
with embroidery, but which seemed much stained 
with travel, and damaged with cuts, received prob- 
ably in battle. It covered a corslet, which had 
once been of polished steel, fairly gilded, but was 
now somewhat injured with rust. A sword of an- 
tique make and uncommon size, framed to be 
wielded with both hands, a kind of weapon which 
was then beginning to go out of use, hung from 
his neck in a baldric, and was so disposed as to 
traverse his whole person, the huge hilt appearing 
over his left shoulder, and the point reaching well- 
nigh to the right heel, and jarring against his spur 
as he walked. This unwieldy weapon could only 
be unsheathed by pulling the handle over the left 
shoulder — for no human arm was long enough to 
draw it in the usual manner. The whole equip- 
ment was that of a rude warrior, negligent of his 
exterior even to misanthropical sullenness ; and the 
short, harsh, haughty tone, which he used towards 
his attendants, belonged to the same unpolished 
character. 

The personage who rode with Lord Lindesay, at 
the head of the party, was an absolute contrast to 
him, in manner, form, and features. His thin and 
silky hair was already white,, though he seemed 
not above forty -five or fifty years old. His tone of 
voice was soft and insinuating — his form thin, 
spare, and bent by an habitual stoop — his pale 


302 


THE ABBOT. 


cheek was expressive of shrewdness and intelli- 
gence — his eye was quick though placid, and his 
whole demeanour mild and conciliatory. He rode 
an ambling nag, such as were used by ladies, cler- 
gymen, or others of peaceful professions — wore a 
riding habit of black velvet, with a cap and feather 
of the same hue, fastened up by a golden medal — 
and for show, and as a mark of rank rather than 
for use, carried a walking sword, (as the short light 
rapiers were called,) without any other arms, offen- 
sive or defensive. 

The party had now quitted the town, and pro- 
ceeded, at a steady trot, towards the west. — As 
they prosecuted their journey, Eoland Graeme 
would gladly have learned something of its pur- 
pose and tendency, but the countenance of the per- 
sonage next to whom he had been placed in the 
train, discouraged all approach to familiarity. The 
Baron himself did not look more grim and inacces- 
sible than his feudal retainer, whose grisly beard 
fell over his mouth like the portcullis before the 
gate of a castle, as if for the purpose of preventing 
the escape of any word, of which absolute neces- 
sity did not demand the utterance. The rest of 
the train seemed under the same taciturn influence, 
and journeyed on without a word being exchanged 
amongst them — more like a troop of Carthusian 
friars than a party of military retainers. Eoland 
Graeme was surprised at this extremity of disci- 
pline ; for even in the household of the Knight of 
Avenel, though somewhat distinguished for the 
accuracy with which decorum was enforced, a jour- 
ney was a period of license, during which jest and 
song, and every thing within the limits of becom- 
ing mirth and pastime, was freely permitted. This 


THE ABBOT. 


303 


unusual silence was, however, so far acceptable, 
that it gave him time to bring any shadow of judg- 
ment which he possessed to council on his own 
situation and prospects, which would have appeared 
to any reasonable person in the highest degree dan- 
gerous and perplexing. 

It was quite evident that he had, through vari- 
ous circumstances not under his own control, formed 
contradictory connexions with both the contending 
factions, by whose strife the kingdom was dis- 
tracted, without being properly an adherent of 
either. It seemed also clear, that the same situa- 
tion in the household of the deposed Queen, to 
which he was now promoted by the influence of 
the Eegent, had been destined to him by his en- 
thusiastic grandmother, Magdalen Graeme; for on 
this subject, the words which Morton had dropped 
had been a ray of light ; yet it was no less clear 
that these two persons, the one the declared enemy, 
the other the enthusiastic votary, of the Catholic 
religion, — the one at the head of the King’s new 
government, the other, who regarded that govern- 
ment as a criminal usurpation, — must have re- 
quired and expected very different services from 
the individual whom they had thus united in rec- 
ommending. It required very little reflection to 
foresee that these contradictory claims on his ser- 
vice might speedily place him in a situation where 
his honour as well as his life might be endangered. 
But it was not in Eoland Grseme’s nature to antici- 
pate evil before it came, or to prepare to combat 
difficulties before they arrived. " I will see this 
beautiful and unfortunate Mary Stewart, ” he said, 
“ of whom we have heard so much, and then there 
will be time enough to determine whether I will be 


304 


THE ABBOT. 


kingsman or queensman. None of them can say 1 
have given word or promise to either of their fac- 
tions ; for they have led me up and down like a blind 
Billy, without giving me any light into what I 
was to do. But it was lucky that grim Douglas 
came into the Eegent’s closet this morning, other- 
wise I had never got free of him without plighting 
my troth to do all the Earl would have me, which 
seemed, after all, but foul play to the poor im- 
prisoned lady, to place her page as an espial on 
her. ” 

Skipping thus lightly over a matter of such con- 
sequence, the thoughts of the harebrained boy went 
a wool-gathering after more agreeable topics. Now 
he admired the Gothic towers of Barnbougle, rising 
from the sea-beaten rock, and overlooking one of 
the most glorious landscapes in Scotland — and 
now he began to consider what notable sport for 
the hounds and the hawks must be afforded by the 
variegated ground over which they travelled — and 
now he compared the steady and dull trot at which 
they were then prosecuting their journey, with the 
delight of sweeping over hill and dale in pursuit 
of his favourite sports. As, under the influence of 
these joyous recollections, he gave his horse the 
spur, and made him execute a gambade, he in- 
stantly incurred the censure of his grave neigh- 
bour, who hinted to him to keep the pace, and 
move quietly and in order, unless he wished such 
notice to be taken of his eccentric movements as 
was likely to be very displeasing to him. 

The rebuke and the restraint under which the 
youth now found himself, brought back to his 
recollection his late good-humoured and accommo- 
dating associate and guide, Adam Woodcock ; and 


THE ABBOT. 


305 


from that topic his imagination made a short flight 
to Avenel Castle, to the quiet and unconfined life 
of its inhabitants, the goodness of his early protec- 
tress, not forgetting the denizens of its stables, 
kennels, and hawk-mews. In a brief space, all 
these subjects of meditation gave way to the re- 
membrance of that riddle of womankind, Catherine 
Seyton, who appeared before the eye of his mind 

— now in her female form — now in her male attire 

— now in both at once — like some strange dream, 
which presents to us the same individual under 
two different characters at the same instant. Her 
mysterious present also recurred to his recollection 

— the sword which he now wore at his side, and 
which he was not to draw, save by command of 
his legitimate Sovereign! But the key of this 
mystery he judged he was likely to find in the is- 
sue of his present journey. 

With such thoughts passing through his mind, 
Eoland Graeme accompanied the party of Lord 
Lindesay to the Queen ’s-Ferry, which they passed 
in vessels that lay in readiness for them. They 
encountered no adventure whatever in their pas- 
sage, excepting one horse being lamed in getting 
into the boat, an incident very common on such oc- 
casions, until a few years ago, when the Ferry was 
completely regulated. What was more peculiarly 
characteristic of the olden age, was the discharge 
of a culverin at the party from the battlements of 
the old castle of Eosythe, on the north side of the 
Ferry, the lord of which happened to have some- 
public or private quarrel with the Lord Lindesay, 
and took this mode of expressing his resentment. 
The insult, however, as it was harmless, remained 
unnoticed and unavenged, nor did any thing else 

VOL. I. — 20 


3o6 


THE ABBOT. 


occur worth notice until the band had come where 
Lochleven spread its magnificent sheet of waters to 
the beams of a bright summer sun. 

The ancient castle, which occupies an island 
nearly in the centre of the lake, recalled to the page 
that of Avenel, in which he had been nurtured. 
But the lake was much larger, and adorned with 
several islets besides that on which the fortress 
was situated ; and instead of being embosomed in 
hills like that of Avenel, had upon the southern 
side only a splendid mountainous screen, being 
the descent of one of the Lomond hills, and on the 
other was surrounded by the extensive and fertile 
plain of Kinross. Eoland Graeme looked with 
some degree of dismay on the water-girdled for- 
tress, which then, as now, consisted only of one 
large Donjon-keep, surrounded with a court-yard, 
with two round flanking-towers at the angles, which 
contained within its circuit some other buildings 
of inferior importance. A few old trees, clustered 
together, near the castle, gave some relief to the 
air of desolate seclusion ; but yet the page, while 
he gazed upon a building so sequestrated, could not 
but feel for the situation of a captive Princess 
doomed to dwell there, as well as for his own. 

“ I must have been born, ” he thought, " under the 
star that presides over ladies and lakes of water, 
for I cannot by any means escape from the service 
of the one, or from dwelling in the other. But if 
they allow me not the fair freedom of my sport 
and exercise, they shall find it as hard to confine a 
wild-drake, as a youth w^ho can swim like one. ” 

The band had now reached the edge of the water, 
and one of the party advancing displayed Lord 
Lindesay’s pennon, waving it repeatedly to and 


THE ABBOT. 


307 


fro, while that Baron himself blew a clamorous 
blast on his bugle. A banner was presently dis- 
played from the roof of the castle in reply to these 
signals, and one or two figures were seen busied as 
if unmooring a boat which lay close to the islet. 

" It will be some time ere they can reach us with 
the boat, ” said the companion of the Lord Linde- 
say ; “ should we ' not do well to proceed to the 
town, and array ourselves in some better order, ere 
we appear before ” 

“ You may do as you list. Sir Eobert, ” replied 
Lindesay, “ I have neither time nor temper to 
waste on such vanities. She has cost me many a 
hard ride, and must not now take offence at the 
threadbare cloak and soiled doublet that I am 
arrayed in. It is the livery to which she has 
brought all Scotland. ” 

" Do not speak so harshly, ” said Sir Eobert ; “ if 
she hath done wrong, she hath dearly abyed it; 
and in losing all real power, one would not deprive 
her of the little external homage due at once to a 
lady and a princess. ” 

" I say to you once more. Sir Eobert Melville, ” 
replied Lindesay, “ do as you will — for me, I am 
now too old to dink myself as a gallant to grace 
the bower of dames. 

“ The bower of dames, my lord ! ” said Melville, 
looking at the rude old tower — " is it yon dark 
and grated castle, the prison of a captive Queen, to 
which you give so gay a name ? ” 

“ Name it as you list, ” replied Lindesay ; " had 
the Eegent desired to send an envoy capable to 
speak to a captive Queen, there are many gallants 
in his court who would have courted the occasion 
to make speeches out of Amadis of Gaul, or the 


THE ABBOT. 


308 

Mirror of Knighthood. But when he sent blunt 
old Lindesay, he knew he would speak to a mis- 
guided woman, as her former misdoings and her 
present state render necessary. I sought not this 
employment — it has been thrust upon me ; and I 
will not cumber myself with more form in the dis- 
charge of it, than needs must be tacked to such an 
occupation. ” 

So saying. Lord Lindesay threw himself from 
horseback, and, wrapping his riding-cloak around 
him, lay down at lazy length upon the sward, to 
await the arrival of the boat, which was now seen 
rowing from the castle towards the shore. Sir 
Robert Melville, who had also dismounted, walked 
at short turns to and fro upon the bank, his arms 
crossed on his breast, often looking to the castle, 
and displaying in his countenance a mixture of 
sorrow and of anxiety. The rest of the party sate 
like statues on horseback, without moving so much 
as the points of their lances, which they held up- 
right in the air. 

As soon as the boat approached a rude quay or 
landing-place, near to which they had stationed 
themselves. Lord Lindesay started up from his re- 
cumbent posture, and asked the person who steered, 
why he had not brought a larger boat with him to 
transport his retinue. 

" So please you, ” replied the boatman,. “ because 
it is the order of our lady, that we bring not to the 
castle more than four persons. ” 

“ Thy lady is a wise woman, ” said Lindesay, “ to 
suspect me of treachery ! — Or, had I intended it, 
what is to hinder us from throwing you and your 
comrades into the lake, and filling the boat with 
my own fellows ? ” 


THE ABBOT. 


309 


The steersman, on hearing this, made a hasty 
signal to his men to hack their oars, and hold off 
from the shore which they were approaching. 

“ Why, thou ass, ” said Lindesay, " thou didst 
not think that I meant thy fool’s head serious 
harm ? Hark thee, friend — with fewer than three 
servants I will go no whither — Sir Eobert Mel- 
ville will require at least the attendance of one 
domestic ; and it will be at your peril and your 
lady’s to refuse us admission, come hither as we 
are on matters of great national concern. ” 

The steersman answered with firmness, but with 
great civility of expression, that his orders were 
positive to bring no more than four into the island, 
but he offered to row back to obtain a revisal of his 
instructions. 

“ Do so, my friend, ” said Sir Eobert Melville, 
after he had in vain endeavoured to persuade his 
stubborn companion to consent to a temporary 
abatement of his train, " row back to the castle, 
sith it will be no better, and obtain thy lady’s 
orders' to transport the Lord Lindesay, myself, and 
our retinue thither. ” 

“ And hearken, ” said Lord Lindesay, " take with 
you this page, who comes as an attendant on your 
lady’s guest. — Dismount, sirrah,” said he, ad- 
dressing Eoland, “ and embark with them in that 
boat. ” 

“ And what is to become of my horse ? ” said 
Grseme ; “lam answerable for him to my master. ” 

“ I will relieve you of the charge, ” said Linde- 
say ; “ thou wilt have little enow to do with horse, 
saddle, or bridle, for ten years to come — Thou 
mayst take the halter an thou wilt — it may stand 
thee in a turn. ” 


$10 


THE ABBOT. 


“ If I thought so, ” said Eoland — hut he was in^ 
terrupted by Sir Eobert Melville, who said to him, 
good-humouredly, “ Dispute it not, young friend 
— resistance can do no good, but may well run 
thee into danger. ” 

Eoland Grseme felt the justice of what he said, 
and, though neither delighted with the matter nor 
manner of Lindesay’s address, deemed it best to 
submit to necessity, and to embark without further 
remonstrance. The men plied .their oars. The 
quay, with the party of horse stationed near it, 
receded from the page’s eyes — the castle and the 
islet seemed to draw near in the same proportion, 
and in a brief space he landed under the shadow of 
a huge old tree which overhung the landing-place. 
The steersman and Graeme leaped ashore ; the boat- 
men remained lying on their oars ready for further 
service. 


AUTHOK’S NOTES. 


Note I., p. 38. — Glendonwyne of Glendonwtne. 

This was a house of ancient descent and superior conse- 
quence, including persons who fought at Bannockburn and 
Otterburn, and closely connected by alliance and friendship 
with the great Earls of Douglas. The Knight in the story 
argues as most Scotsmen would do in his situation, for all of 
the same clan are popularly considered as descended from the 
same stock, and as having a right to the ancestral honour of 
the chief branch. This opinion, though sometimes ideal, is so 
strong, even at this day of innovation, that it may be observed 
as a national difference between my countrymen and the Eng- 
lish. If you ask an Englishman of good birth, whether a per- 
son of the same name be connected with him, he answers, (if 
in dubio,) “No — he is a mere namesake.” Ask a similar 
question of a Scot, (I mean a Scotsman,) he replies — “He is 
one of our clan; I daresay there is a relationship, though I do 
not know how distant.” The Englishman thinks of discoun- 
tenancing a species of rivalry in society ; the Scotsman’s an- 
swer is grounded on the ancient idea of strengthening the clan. 


Note II., p. 101. — Cell op Saint Cuthbert. 

I may here observe, that this is entirely an ideal scene. 
Saint Cuthbert, a person of established sanctity, had, no doubt, 
several places of worship on the Borders, where he flourished 
whilst living ; but Tillmouth Chapel is the only one which 
bears some resemblance to the hermitage described in the text. 
It has, indeed, a well, famous for gratifying three wishes for 
every worshipper who shall quaff the fountain with sufficient 
belief in its efficacy. At this spot the Saint is said to have 


312 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


landed in his stone coffin, in which he sailed down the Tweed 
from Melrose, and here the stone coffin long lay, in evidence 
of the fact. The late Sir Francis Blake Delaval is said to have 
taken the exact measure of the coffin, and to have ascertained, 
by hydrostatic principles, that it might have actually swum. 
A profane farmer in the neighbourhood announced his inten- 
tion of converting this last bed of the Saint into a trough for 
his swine ; but the profanation was rendered impossible, either 
by the Saint, or by some pious votary in his behalf, for on the 
following morning the stone sarcophagus was found broken in 
two fragments. 

Tillmouth Chapel, with these points of resemblance, lies, 
however, in exactly the opposite direction as regards Melrose, 
which the supposed cell of Saint Cuthbert is said to have borne, 
towards Kennaquhair. 


Note III., p. 120. — Goss-hawk. 

The comparison is taken from some beautiful verses in an 
old ballad, entitled Fause Foodrage, published in the “ Min- 
strelsy of the Scottish Border.” A deposed queen, to preserve 
her infant son from the traitors who have slain his father, ex- 
changes him with the female offspring of a faithful friend, and 
goes on to direct the education of the children, and the private 
signals by which the parents are to hear news each of her own 
offspring. 


“And you shall learn my gay goss-hawk 
Right well to breast a steed; 

And so will I your turtle dow, 

As well to write and. read. 

And ye shall learn my gay goss-hawk 
T» wield both bow and brand; 

And so will I your turtle dow, 

To lay gowd with her hand. 

At kirk or market when we meet, 

We’ll dare make no avow, 

But, ‘ Dame, how does my gay goss-hawk ? ’ 
‘ Madame, how does my dow ? ’ " 

\ 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


313 


Note IV., p. 150. — Nunnery op Saint Bridget. 

. This, like the Cell of Saint Ciithbert, is an imaginary scene, 
but I took one or two ideas of the desolation of the interior 
from a story told me by my father. In his youth — it may be 
near eighty years since, as he was born in 1729 — he had occa- 
sion to visit an old lady who resided in a Border castle of con- 
siderable renown. Only one very limited portion of the 
extensive ruins sufficed for the accommodation of the inmates, 
and ray father amused himself by wandering through the part 
that was untenanted. In a dining apartment, having a roof 
richly adorned with arches and drops, there was deposited a 
large stack of hay, to which calves were helping themselves 
from opposite sides. As my father was scaling a dark ruinous 
turnpike staircase, his greyhound ran up before him, and pro- 
bably was the means of saving his life, for the animal fell 
through a trap-door, or aperture in the stair, thus warning the 
owner of the danger of the ascent. As the dog continued 
howling from a great depth, my father got the old butler, who 
alone knew most of the localities about the castle, to unlock a 
sort of stable, in which Kill-buck was found safe and sound, 
the place being filled with the same commodity which littered 
the stalls of Augeas, and which had rendered the dog’s fall an 
easy one. 


Note V., p. 172. — Abbot of Unreason. 

We V learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon 
Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime 
and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to an- 
other, so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are pecu- 
liarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh be- 
comes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, 
place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some 
species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient 
Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly in- 
dulged to the people at all times, and in almost all countries. 
But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, 
that while they studied how to render their church rites im- 
posing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, 
and external display could add to them, they nevertheless con- 
nived, upon special occasions, at the frf)lics of the rude vulgar, 


3H 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least as- 
sumed, the privilege of making some Lord of the revels, who, 
under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or 
the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the 
holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung 
indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference 
of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the in- 
decent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes 
encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with 
which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or 
writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It 
could only be compared to the singular apathy with which 
they endured, and often admired, the gross novels which Chau- 
cer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon 
the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in 
both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, 
and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour 
by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave 
question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which 
was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. 

But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appear- 
ance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail ; and 
the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety 
of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring re- 
ligion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common 
people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the 
Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. 

I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to 
Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord 
of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at 
whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed 
to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parch- 
ment citation. 

The reader may be amused with the following whimsical 
details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borth- 
wick, in the year 1547. It appears, that in consequence of a 
process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord 
Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the 
latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. Wil- 
liam Langlands, an apparitor or macer (hacularius) of the See 
of St. Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the 
church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


315 


service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the 
castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enact- 
ing the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high-jinks, in which a 
mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in 
England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly 
the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with 
his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor’s character, en- 
tered the church, seized upon the primate’s officer without 
hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south 
side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not^ 
contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason 
pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet suffi- 
ciently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on 
his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory 
and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then con- 
ducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his 
bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and 
steeped in a bowl of wine ; the mock abbot being probably of 
opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating. Lang- 
lands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, 
and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable 
assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during 
the continuance of his office, “they should a’ gang the same 
gate,” i. e. go the same road. 

A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of 
Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the 
old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the 
church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be 
found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be 
supposed appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion. ^ 

1 Harpool. Marry, sir, is this process parchment ? 

Sumner. Yes, marry is it. 

Harpool. And this seal wax ? 

Sumner. It is so. 

Harpool. If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this 
parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and 
beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, dispatch — devour, 
sirrah, devour. 

Sumner. I am my Lord of Rochester’s sumner ; I came to do my 
office, and thou shalt answer it. 

Harpool. Sirrah, no railing, but betake thyself to thy teeth. 
Thou shalt eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou 


3i6 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


Note VI., p. 174. — The Hobby-horse. 

This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high 
among hol 3 'day gambols. It must be carefully separated from 
the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives 
rise to Hamlet’s ejaculation, — 

But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot ! 

There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher’s 
play of “ Women Pleased,” where Hope-on-high Bombye, a 
puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There 
was much difficulty and great variety in the morons which 
the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. 

The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the 
illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full ac- 
count of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which 
it practised. 


bringest it for my lord ; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than 
thou wilt eat thyself ? 

Sumner. Sir, 1 brought it not my lord to eat. 

Harpool. 0, do you Sir me now ? All’s one for that ; I’ll make 
you eat it for bringing it. 

Sumner. I cannot eat it. 

Harpool. Can you not ? ’Sblood, I’ll beat you till you have a 
stomach ! {Beats him. ) 

Sumner. Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman ; I will eat it. 

Harpool. Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, 
you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. 

Sumner. The purest of the honey ! — 0 Lord, sir 1 oh ! oh ! 

Harpool. Feed, feed ; ’tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Can- 
not you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, 
to fetch in your bailifTs rents, but you must come to a nobleman’s 
house with process ? If the seal were broad as the lead which covers 
Rochester Church, thou sliouldst eat it. 

Sumner. Oh, I am almost -choked — I am almost choked ! 

Harpool. Who’s within there ? will you shame my lord ? is 
there no beer in the house ? Butler, I say. 


Enter Butler. 

Butler. Here, here. 

Harpool. Give him beer. Tough old sheep-skin’s but dry meat. 

First Part of Sir John Oldcastle^ Act II. Scene 1. 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


317 


** The hobby-horse,” says Mr. Douce, “ was represented by a 
man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to 
form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal 
defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that 
nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, ex- 
erted all his shill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson’s 
play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby- 
horse, and being angry that the mayor of the city is put in 
competition with him, exclaims, ‘ Let the mayor play the 
hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town- 
lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, 
my careers, my pranckers, my ambles, my false trots, my 
smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor 
put me besides the hobby-horse 1 Have I borrowed the fore- 
horse bells, his plumes, his braveries ; nay, had his mane new 
shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me besides the 
hobby-horse ? ’ ” — Douce’s Illustrationsy vol. II., p. 468. 


Note VII., p. 175. — Representation op Robin Hood 
AND Little John. 

The representation of Robin Hood was the darling May- 
game both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the fa- 
vourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of 
Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual degree 
of license, 

- The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage 
from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of di- 
recting their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders 
against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these 
purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them 
of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame 
of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The cele- 
brated Bishop Latimer gives a very naive account of the manner 
in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled- to give 
place to Robin Hood and his followers. 

“ I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from 
London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I 
would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, 
and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood 
in my way, and I tooke my horse and my company, and went 


3i8 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in 
the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast 
locked. I tarry ed there halfe an houre and more. At last the 
key was found, and one of the parish comes to me, and said, — 
‘Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is 
Robin Hood’s day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for 
Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.’ I was faine there to 
give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have 
been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it 
was faine to give place to Robin Hood’s men. It is no laugh- 
ing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, 
a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin 
Hood, a tray tour, and a thief, to put out a preacher; to have 
his office lesse esteemed ; to preferre Robin Hood before the 
ministration of God’s word; and all this hath come of un- 
preaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, 
that it hath had such corrupt judgements in it, to prefer Robin 
Hood to God’s word.” — Bishop Latimer^ s sixth Sermon before 
King Edward. 

While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw’s 
pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish 
calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their 
head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edin- 
burgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, 
found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when 
they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting 
their pageant of Robin Hood. 

(1561.) “ Vpon the xxi day of Junij, Archibalde Dowglas 

of Kilspindie, Provest of Ed^, David Symmer and Adame 
Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare ser- 
vant, callit James Gill on, takin of befoir, for playing in Ed^ 
with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the 
knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, 
quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for 
ye said cry me. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing 
vproare, maid great solistatnis at ye handis of ye said provost 
and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschew- 
ing of tumult, to superceid ye executioun of him, vnto ye tyme 
yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes 
his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said 
deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha an- 
swerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


319 


Quhan ye time of ye said poiier mans hanging approchit, and 
yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune 
ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine 
and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye home with ye 
said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Hude’s playes, and vyris yair 
assistaris and favoraiis, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye 
said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. 
Guthrie, in ye said Alexander’s writing buith, and held yame 
yairin ; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne 
was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai 
brake the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, 
(the said pro vest and baillies luckand thairon,) and not onlie 
put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht 
him furth of the said tolbuit, hot alsua the remanent personaris 
being thairintill ; and this done, the said craftismeii’s servands, 
with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Nether- 
bow, to have past furth thairat; hot becaus the samyne on 
their coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie 
streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this mene- 
tyme the saidis provest and baillies and thair assistaris being 
in the writting buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and en- 
terit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp 
the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and 
hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair 
wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand 
stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand 
hagbuttis in the same agane. And sua the craftismen’s ser- 
vandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and 
baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris 
efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said 
town prensit to relieve thair said provest and baillies. And 
than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to cans tham if 
thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do 
the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, 
ffor the said servands wold on nowayes stay fra, quhill thai 
had revengit the hurting of ane of them ; and thairefter the 
constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the 
said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner : — 
That the said provost and baillies sail remit to the said craftis- 
childer, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit 
aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame 
never to purse w them thairfor; and als commandit their mais- 


320 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


ters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. 
And this being proclamit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and 
the said pro vest and baillies come furth ,of the same tol- 
bouyth,” &c. &c. &c. 

John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs 
us it was inflamed by the deacons of crafts, who, resenting 
the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would 
yield no assistance to put down the tumult. “ They will be 
magistrates alone,” said the recusant deacons, “ e’en let them 
rule the populace alone ; ” and accordingly they passed quietly 
to take their four-hours penny, and left the magistrates to help 
themselves as they could. Many persons were excommuni- 
cated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances 
till they had made satisfaction. 

Note VIII., p. 207. — Inability of Evil Spirits to Enter 
A House Uninvited. 

There is a popular belief respecting evil spirits, that they 
cannot enter an inhabited house unless invited, nay, dragged 
over the threshold. There is an instance of the same supersti- 
tion in the Tales of the Genii, where an enchanter is supposed 
to have intruded himself into the Divan of the Sultan. 

“^Thus,’ said the illustrious Misnar, ‘let the enemies of 
Mahomet be dismayed ! but inform me, O ye sages I under the 
semblance of which of your brethren did that foul enchanter 
gain admittance here V — ‘ May the lord of my heart,’ answered 
Balihu, the hermit of the faithful from Queda, ‘ triumph over 
all his foes ! As I travelled on the mountains from Queda, 
and saw neither the footsteps of beasts, nor the flight of birds, 
behold, I chanced to pass through a cavern, in whose hollow 
sides I found this accursed sage, to whom I unfolded the invi- 
tation of the Sultan of India, and Ave, joining, journeyed to- 
wards the Divan ; but ere we entered, he said unto me, ‘ Put 
thy hand forth, and pull me towards thee unto the Divan, 
calling on the name of Mahomet, for the evil spirits are on me, 
and vex me.’ ” 

I have understood that many parts of these fine tales, and in 
particular that of the Sultan Misnar, were taken from genuine 
Oriental sources by the editor, Mr. James Ridley. 

But the most picturesque use of this popular belief occurs in 
Coleridge’s beautiful and tantalizing fragment of Christabel. 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


321 


Has not our own imaginative poet cause to fear that future 
ages will desire to summon him from his place of rest, as Mil- 
ton longed 

“To call him up, who left half told 
The story of Cainbuscan bold ? ” 

The verses I refer to are when Christabel conducts into her 
father’s castle a mysterious and malevolent being, under the 
guise of a distressed female stranger. 

“ They cross’d the moat, and Christabel 
Took the key that fitted well ; 

A little door she open’d straight, 

All in the middle of the gate ; 

The gate that was iron’d within and without, 

Where an army in battle array had march’d out. , 

“ The lady sank, belike thro’ pain, 

And Christabel with might and main 
Lifted her up, a weary weight, 

Over the threshold of the gate : 

Then the lady rose again. 

And moved as she were not in pain. 

“ So free from danger, free from fear, 

They cross’d the court: — right glad they were. 

And Christabel devoutly cried 
To the lady by her side : 

* Praise we the Virgin, all divine, 

Who hath rescued thee from this distress.* 

* Alas, alas ! ’ said Geraldine, 

‘I cannot speak from weariness.’ 

So free from danger, free from fear, 

They cross’d the court: — right glad they were.” 


Note TX., p. 240. — Seyten, or Seyton. 

George, fifth Lord Seyton, was immovably faithful to Queen 
Mary during all the mutabilities of her fortune. He was 
grand master of the household, in which capacity he had a 
picture painted of himself with his official baton, and the fob 
lowing motto: — 

In adversitatg, patiens; 

In prosperitate, henevolus. 

Hazard, yet forward. 

TOL. I, — 21 


322 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


On various parts of his castle he inscribed, as expressing his 
religious and political creed, the legend, 

Un DiEU, UN FOY, UN ROY, UN LOY. 

He declined to be promoted to an earldom, which Queen 
Mary offered him at the same time when she advanced her na- 
tural brother to be Earl of Mar, and afterwards of Murray. 

On his refusing this honour, Mary wrote, or caused to be 
written, the following lines in Latin and French: — 

Sunt comites, ducesque alii ; sunt denique reges ; 

Sethoni dominum sit satis esse mihi. 

II y a des comptes, des roys, des dues ; ainsi 
C’est assez pour moy d’estre Seigneur de Seton. 

Which may be thus rendered: — 

Earl, duke, or king, be thou that list to be 
Seton, thy lordship is enough for me. 

This distich reminds us of the “ pride which aped humility,” 
in the motto of the house of Couci : 

Je suis ni roy, ni prince aussi ; 

Je suis le Seigneur de Coucy. 

After the battle of Langside, Lord Seton was obliged to 
retire abroad for safety, and was an exile for two years, during 
which he was reduced to the necessity of driving a waggon in 
Flanders for his subsistence. He rose to favour in James VI. ’s 
reign, and resuming his paternal property, had himself painted 
in his waggoner’s dress, and in the act of driving a wain with 
four horses, on the north end of a stately gallery at Seton 
Castle. He appears to have been fond of the arts ; for there 
exists a beautiful family-piece of him in the centre of his 
family. Mr. Pinkerton, in his Scottish Iconographia, published 
an engraving of this curious portrait. The original is the 
property of Lord Somerville, nearly connected with the Seton 
family, and is at present at his lordship’s fishing villa of the 
Pavilion, near Melrose. 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


(a) p. ixv. “An advantage similar to that which Jack the 
Giant-killer received from his coat of darkness.” “ The coat 
of darkness ” is more frequently called a “ cap of darkness ” — 
Nebelkappe in German tales. As a cap or helmet this magi- 
cal property makes its earliest literary appearance in the 
Iliad (V. 845) : “ Athene put on the helm of Hades, that Ares 
might not see her.” It is also spoken of in “ The Shield of 
Heracles,” attributed to Hesiod (227); in the “ Achariiians ” 
of Aristophanes (390) ; in Plato, “ Republic ” (X. 612); and in 
the story of Perseus. The name “ Hades ” here seems to re- 
tain something of its primitive sense, “invisible.” See Leaf, 
“ Iliad,” note on V. 845. This is only one of many proofs 
that the Greeks were familiar with versions of our common 
popular tales — a theme in which Sir Walter Scott was much 
interested. 

(b) p. XXV. “ A pleasing French writer of fairy tales, Mon- 
sieur Pajon.” The Abbotsford copy- of Pajon’s “ Contes ” is vol. 
xxxiv. in the “Cabinet des F^es” (Amsterdam 1785-86). 

(c) p. xxvi. “ The air of reality, which the deficiency of 
explanation attaches to a work.” In writing the Life of Mrs. 
Radcliffe for Ballantyne’s Library of Novelists, Scott insists on 
the Tediousness of “ explanations.” Here, as in other passages, 
he leans to a current modem theory of “realism,” of leaving a 
tale at loose ends, as a method more in harmony with actual 
experience. 

(d) p. xxviii. Queen Mary. “ The mystery which still does, 
and probably always will, overhang her history.” The chief 
“ mystery ” is that which surrounds the celebrated “ Casket 
Letters.” According to Morton’s story, to which we shall 
return later, on June 20, 1567, his agents captured one Dal- 
gliesh, a servant of BothwelPs. This man had taken from 
Edinburgh Castle a certain silver-gilt casket, embossed with 
the letter F under a crown. The box had belonged to Mary’s 
first husband, Francis II.; from Mary it had come into Both- 
welPs hands; and it contained, among other documents, 


324 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


sonnets ” in French, and love-letters of an incriminating 
character, from Mary to Bothwell. One of these, known as 
“ the Glasgow letter,” was especially damning. The earliest 
allusion to this discovery (in Mr. Skelton’s opinion) is found in 
a letter of Throckmorton’s, written on July 25, six weeks after 
the final parting of Mary and Bothwell at Carberry. Throck- 
morton says, in effect, that the rebel lords have witness to 
Mary’s guilt in the murder of Darnley, “ by the testimony of 
her own handwriting, which they have recovered ” (“ Mait- 
land of Lethington,” ii. 306). About the same time, the end 
of July, Moray, according to Mr. Froude, received from a 
correspondent in Scotland a summary of the most important 
of the letters (Froude, ix. 119). But that summary does not 
agree with any of the letters said to have been found in the 
casket. Moray, too, was informed that the letter was signed 
with Mary’s name. Now none of the letters were signed. 
Either a forgery had been made and abandoned, or Moray’s 
correspondent was inaccurately instructed. On November 
28, 1567, Drury wrote to Cecil, saying that, at a meeting of 
the lords at Craigmillar, they had determined to burn the 
bond, or record of alliance for Darnley’s murder, which had 
been placed by Bothwell in the casket, but to keep the evi- 
dence against the Queen. In Morton’s declaration about the 
contents of the casket, nothing is said about this bond. Mor- 
ton may have been silent on purpose, but what is the value 
of Drury’s information? On Dec. 4, 1567, the nobles who 
opposed Bothwell met, and passed an Act, in which they de- 
clared that they had taken up arms against the Queen because 
“ by divers her privie letters, written and subscrivit with her 
own hand,” and sent to Bothwell, it appeared that she was 
accessory to Darnley’s murder. But they had risen in early 
spring, while, according to their own story, they did not 
obtain the letters before June 20, and not one of the letters, 
when produced, was “subscrivit” or signed. When Mary 
had escaped from Loch Leven, Moray’s Council sent 
Scotch translations of the letter to Elizabeth. Why Scotch 
translations, instead of copies of the original French, who can 
say? On Sept. 16, 1568, Morton handed the casket over to 
Moray, and now we first hear that they had been taken 
from Dalgliesh on June 20, 1567. Dalgliesh was exe- 
cuted on Jan. 3, 1568, and that witness could not be cross- 
examined. Moray declared that the contents of the casket had 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


325 


neither been altered, added to, nor diminished, yet, if Drury 
was well informed, the bond for Darnley’s murder had been 
removed. On Oct. 20, 1568, the English Commissioners at York 
— Norfolk, Sussex, and Sadler — were privately shown the 
letters which the Scotch “affirm to be her own hand indeed.” 
But the letters shown were in Scotch ; the persons who ex- 
hibited them must have meant that the originals were in the 
Queen’s hand. Sussex, writing to Cecil (Oct. 22, 1568), 
clearly thought the proofs quite insufficient. The Scotch 
Commissioners, on this occasion, exhibited a warrant from 
Mary, requiring the nobles who met at Ainslie’s Tavern 
(April 19, 1567) to sign a [bond for her marriage with Both- 
well, and this warrant, they said, was in the casket. At 
Westminster this document was not produced. Now, if it 
was genuine, why was it not produced at Westminster? 
If it was forged, then all the letters are tainted and untrust- 
worthy. Buchanan (“ History,” xviii. 26) admits that no 
such warrant was exhibited at Ainslie’s Tavern. When the 
Commissioners adjourned from York to Westminster, the let- 
ters in the original French were at last produced, copies were 
made and collated, and Moray recovered the originals. Later, 
at Hampton Court, the so-called original letters were compared 
with letters from Mary to Elizabeth, but “ no expert was called 
in, and the examination was suspiciously perfunctory and un- 
scientific” (“ Maitland of Lethington,” ii. 319). This is ap- 
parent from Cecil’s very frank statement. He says that “ if 
time had so served ” more pains would have been bestowed. 
The Peers assembled decided that “ as the case did now stand ” 
the immaculate Elizabeth had better not admit the dubious 
story to an audience. Mary was not allowed to see the letters, 
nor copies of them, and Moray took them back to Scotland. 
On this statement of the case, abridged from Mr. Skelton’s 
chapter, it cannot be denied that the proceedings were loose, 
partial, suspicious, and valueless. 

The so-called originals have never been seen since they were 
in the hands of Qowrie. If James VI. recovered them, after 
the slaying of Gowrie, he never produced them. Translations 
in Scotch, and of some in Latin, and in French from the 
Scotch, were published in 1571 (in Buchanan's “ Detectio 
Marise Reginae ”) and in 1572. That the Scotch versions 
were the originals of the published French versions was proved 
on philological grounds by Goodall, in 1754. But if there 


\ • 


326 EDITOR’S NOTES. 

existed letters written by the Queen in French, why was not 
that original French published ? Why were the letters trans- 
lated, and badly translated, from a Scotch version? But while 
Goodall proved his case for some letters and portions of letters, 
others are written in idiomatic French. Now it is the corrupt 
French parts that compromise the Queen. Hence the sug- 
gestion that the holders of the letters mingled real but inno- 
cent documents with guilty but forged ones. The most damn- 
ing of all is “ the Glasgow letter,” a long, maundering, but 
most compromising piece, containing, among other matters, a 
lengthy report of a conversation with Darnley. Now one 
Robert Cranford was in attendance . on Darnley in Glasgow at 
this time, and, in accordance with the request of Darnley’s 
father, he noted down all the conversations between Darnley 
and the Queen, as reported by Darnley to himself. Now 
Mary’s report, in the Glasgow letter to Bothwell, agrees 
“ word for word ” with Cranford’s report, as given by Darn- 
ley to him, and by him written for Lennox. They may be 
compared in Mr. Skelton’s “Maitland,” ii. 340. Parallel 
columns never gave more unmistakable evidence. The docu- 
ments are practically identical. Now it is plainly not con- 
ceivable that a report of a conversation by a lady, and another 
at second hand by a third person, should agree with such 
verbal minuteness, where, of course, no shorthand reporter was 
employed. Either Cranford copied the letter or the letter was 
copied from Crauford, as far as the account of the conversation 
is concerned. 

Manifestly this is not evidence, and the procedure through- 
out is not procedure on which a cat should be hanged for 
stealing cream. But then we have to deal with Mr. Hender- 
son’s book, “ The Casket Letters and Mary Queen of Scots ” 
(Black, Edinburgh 1889). Mr. Henderson admits that, even 
if the Queen had been really guilty, a few forged proofs of it 
might have been highly convenient. But how and when 
could such a forgery have been made ? Mr. Henderson has 
examined folio 216 of No. 32,091 of the Additional MSS. in 
the British Museum. Here is recorded Morton’s declaration, 
made in December 1568, as to the seizure of the casket and 
its contents. On June 19, 1567, Morton and Maitland of 
Lethington were dining together in Edinburgh, when news 
came that a servant of Both well’s, Dalgliesh, was in the castle. 
Morton had him followed and seized; next day, when con- 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


327 


fronted witli the torture, Dalgliesh gave up the casket. On 
the 2l8t it was forced open, in the presence of Morton, 
Lethington, Athol, Marr, Tullibardine, Sera pie, and many- 
other Scotch lords, and the contents were “ sighted ” — that 
is, inspected. Mr. Henderson argues that, on making this 
declaration, Morton can hardly have lied. The Lords who 
saw the casket opened would have refuted him, had he used 
their names falsely, with their knowledge. But, if he told the 
truth, new letters could not be forged, as the contents of the 
genuine papers were examined the day after the box was 
seized. This is really the strongest point in favour of the 
authenticity of the letters. Mr. Skelton has replied to Mr. 
Henderson’s very able work in “ Blackwood’s Magazine ” 
(December 1889). Mr. Skelton’s position is, “not that the 
documents had been proved to be fabricated, but that they be- 
longed to a class of writings which cannot be used with abso- 
lute confidence, that they are what they profess to be.” The 
Glasgow letter is the centre of the position. “ It can hardly 
be denied that the one fatally compromising document pro- 
duced by the lords has been completely discredited.” Now 
if the lords tampered with one document, the others in them 
possession share the suspicion. Again, Mr. Henderson ex- 
plains the resemblance between Cranford’s account and the 
Glasgow letter’s account of the interview between Mary and 
Darnley by a theory that the conversations “ had been photo- 
graphed on her mental retina” (a queer metaphor) “with 
peculiar distinctness.” Darnley’s mental retina must have 
been equally lively, and Cranford’s report must have been 
taken down word for word from Darnley. No one can form 
an idea of the impossibility of this theory, without compar- 
ing the parallel columns of the letter and Cranford’s state- 
ment. The first sentence will sufl&ce. 


Crauford. 

Ye asked me what I ment by 
the crueltye specified in my 
lettres: yet proceedethe of you 
onelye, that wille not accept 
my offres and repentance. 


Glasgow Letter. 

Ye ask me quhat I mene be 
the cruel tie contenit in my 
letter: it is of you alone, 
that will not accept my off- 
feyis and repentance. 


And so it goes on. Now Mary and Darnley had a long 
talk. “ Ex hypothesi.” Mary repeated this, from memory, to 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


328 

Both well, in French. Darnley repeated it to Cranford, Cran- 
ford (then or eighteen months later) wrote down what Darn- 
ley said in Scots. Mary’s letter was done into Scots. And 
Mary’s letter, originally in French, exactly tallies with Darn- 
ley’s report written down, some time or other, in Scots. The 
lords produced 'both documents, as independent evidence. 
The two documents prove too much. One of the tw'o docu- 
ments was copied from the other: no jury could come to a 
different conclusion. Mr. Philippson proves that the letter, or 
this part of it, was taken from Cranford’s deposition (“ Etudes 
0 ur Marie Stuart,” “ Revue Historique,” 1888). As to Mor- 
1:on’s Declaration of Dec. 8, 1568, concerning the discovery 
and “ sighting,” or thorough examination, of the contents of 
the casket, Mr. Henderson has published the wording of it 
from manuscript, and, as Mr. Skelton shows, has made many 
minute errors in transcription. An abstract had already 
been used (Bresslau, “ Historisches Taschenbuch,” 1882, p. 21). 
It has been alleged that Dalgliesh was not taken in Edin- 
burgh on June 20, 1567, but in Orkney, a month later. To 
return, whether Bresslau or Mr. Henderson first cited Mor- 
ton’s Declaration, Mr. Skelton asks for the pedigree of the 
manuscript, which was in Sir A. Malet’s collection in 1876. 
“It does not pretend to be original: the original has been 
lost, and this is a copy — of what?” It purports to be a 
copy of what was given to Cecil on Dec. 8, 1568, and 
again, of what Morton presented to the English Council and 
Commissioners, on Dec. 29, on neither of which days, so far as 
2 an be ascertained, did the Commissioners sit. But the docu- 
ment has a third character. “ The copy of a letter gevin .to 
Secretary Cecill.” Supposing the document to be a true copy 
of Morton’s Declaration, was it emitted in conditions calcu- 
lated to test its credibility, and can we trust Morton ? Nobody 
can trust Morton, and in that secret and mainly hostile tri- 
bunal there was no cross-examination. Of the witnesses to 
the sighting of the documents on June 21, Athol, for example, 
was not asked if he was present. In spite of the statement 
about “ sighting,” it is easy to imagine that the Glasgow let- 
ter might have been later introduced. No inventory was 
taken on June 21, or none was produced, and none can 
be found ; so mystery involves the whole question of the 
casket. The part of the Glasgow letter so much discussed 
could not have been in it, or, even if it was, Cranford’s evi- 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


329 


dence must be false, and Mary’s accusers are, on either view, 
in the position of producing what they knew to be fictitious. 
The bond for the murder of Darnley, if Drury is right, is 
another dubious circumstance. In brief, we get no further 
forward: we always come back to Morton’s word and honour, 
which are not worth a farthing. 

A German erudite, carrying into this controversy the 
national habits of Homeric and Biblical criticism, suggests 
that Darnley wrote letter i. to Mary, ihat Mary wrote part of ii. 
to Moray, and that the “main stock” of the letter was a 
diary of the Queen’s. 

The next step will be to distinguish “ B,” the forgeries 
of Buchanan, from “ K ” those of Knox, and so forth, after 
the manner of Old Testament erudition. Probably the 
best brief statement of Mary’s career is Mr. Swinburne’s, in 
the “ Encyclopaedia Britannica.” He urges that if the Queen 
were innocent, then her conduct about the time of Darnley ’s 
murder and the marriage with Both well was imbecile. But on 
no theory can it be called consistent and intelligible. Our 
own sketch is mainly a summary of Mr. Skelton’s argument. 

The curious reader will do well to consult the second edition 
of Mr. Henderson’s “Casket Letters,” which contains re- 
marks modifying the facts reported in the note. 

(e) p. 4. “ Quentin Kennedy, Abbot of Crosraguel.” The 

Abbot’s argument is in favour of Reformation, not ruin. 
“ Thus sulde Christian men seik reformation (and that be ane 
ordour), and nocht plane destructions and confusions, as men 
dois in this dayis.” This is from the “ Compendius Tractive ” 
published in 1558, while Kennedy was Commendator of his 
Abbey. Kennedy was fourth son of Gilbert, second Earl of 
Cassilis. On May 20, 1563, he was arraigned, but “could not be 
taken.” His crime seems to have been celebrating Mass. Ken- 
nedy died Aug. 22, 1564. The Queen gave his temporalities to 
George Buchanan, whose gratitude is notorious. His Com- 
mendator, Allan Stuart, was roasted by Lord . Kennedy, at 
Dunure Castle, in 1571, for refusing to sign a resignation of the 
property. The Earl had to give surety of safety to Buchanan, 
whom perhaps he might otherwise have roasted. Crosraguel, 
or its ruins, is in Kirkoswald, in Ayrshire (Keith, ii. 242). 

(/) ’P* 37. “ Hay of Loncarty.” See Note on the genealogy 
of the Douglas family in “ The Monastery.” “ The dark grey 
man ” is a Volks-etymologie of the name Sholto Douglas. After 


330 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


a battle the king is said to have asked, “Who is that dark 
grey man ? ” hence the name of Douglas, according to the 
legend. 

(gf) p. 98. “ The sainted spring had not escaped.” There 

are fragments of the stone-work of a sacred well at Abbotsford, 
and such a well exists on Scott’s grounds at Chiefswood, where 
Lockhart lived. It is still occasionally resorted to by Catholics 
of the neighbourhood. 

(h) p. 161. “ The images which had been placed in the num- 

erous niches.” At St. Andrews the Reformation has been so 
radical that, of all the images of saints, only one mutilated Ma- 
donna survives over a gateway in the cathedral. Not only 
have the figures on the graves been broken up, but the very 
tombs, like one in the College Church, have been ransacked. 
The lead of the cofi&ns was the prize of these desecrations. 

(i) p. 172. “ The Abbot of Unreason.” These sports were 

not, in the majority of cases, introduced by the clergy, but were 
permitted survivals of old heathen saturnalia, and of the widely 
diffused games of May and of harvest. Mr. Frazer’s “Golden 
Bough” contains a curious and valuable account of this world- 
wide ritual. Both in England and Scotland, destined to be no 
longer “ merry,” the sports were put down as pagan by the 
Puritans, not without popular discontent. Robin Hood, him- 
self, in the sports, was very possibly the ancient May King, as 
is remarked in the Editor’s Notes to “ Ivanhoe.” 

(k) p. 250. “ Maiden of Morton.” This primitive guillotine 
is now in the possession of the Scottish Society of Antiqua- 
ries. The legends about Morton’s introduction of the engine, 
which had certainly been long known elsewhere, are probably 
mythical. 

{1) p. 252. “ The blood of Seignior David.” From a sub- 

ordinate position Rizzio had climbed into the familiarity of 
the Queen. He was hateful to the Scotch nobles as a foreigner, 
a Catholic, a man of mean birth, and an artist. He was also 
believed to oppose the restitution of the outlawed lords, and 
Calderwood and Buchanan accuse him of a scheme to procure 
an Italian bodyguard for the Queen. 

A Parliament was about to meet (1565-6), and many lay 
holders of ecclesiastical lands, with other politicians, friends of 
the exiled Moray, had reasons for desiring to postpone it. 
Darnley was excited by stupidly scandalous reports about the 
Queen’s affection for Rizzio. Buchanan gave publicity to this 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


331 


scandal. On all sides, then, was hatred of Seignior David, and 
a plan for assassinating him was easily matured by Patrick, 
third Lord Ruthven, whose son appears in the scene at Loch 
Leven Castle. Whether Knox knew of the intended murder 
before it was committed, or not, he expresses sympathy with it 
after it was done. On Sunday, March 3, there was a Fast Day, 
and sermons were preached on the most sanguinary chapters of 
the Old Testament — the hanging of Haman, the slaying of 
Sisera, and the like. Parliament opened on Thursday. Moray 
would have been attainted on the following Tuesday, but the 
murder of Rizzio, in circumstances the most heartlessly brutal, 
broke up the Parliament. Pistols were pointed at the Queen, 
then seven months advanced in her pregnancy, and her secre- 
tary was torn from her and slain with fifty-six dagger- wounds. 
This dastardly act was the result of a conspiracy animated by 
zeal for the Reformation, by the jealousy, political and per- 
sonal, of Darnley, and by the private interests of the exiled 
nobles and their friends. The men whom “ God raised up,” as 
Knox says, to slay Rizzio, succeeded in proving that Scots of 
birth and breeding can rival in brutality the worst licence of 
popular tumults. By sending Ruthven to bully the Queen at 
Loch Leven they showed that to insult and outrage a defence- 
less woman was part of their deliberate policy. 

(m) p. 255. “ Such wa: the personage before whom Roland 

Graeme now presented himself, with a feeling of breathless 
awe.” Lockhart suggests that this description was inspired by 
a meeting with the Duke of Wellington. 

(n) p. 256. “The wife of King Candaules.” The well- 
known tale of how Candaules insisted on letting his officer, 
Gyges, see his wife undressed, and of her revenge, is in Hero- 
dotus, i. 7-12. 

( 0 ) p. 299. “His scheme is a devout imagination.” This 
remark on John Knox’s scheme for saving some Church pro- 
perty for the Kirk is attributed by Archbishop Spottiswoode 
to “a certain nobleman. . . . Mr. Knox was highly offended: 
yet,” adds the writer, “ it was no better than a dream, for it 
could never have taken effect.” As Keith says, Knox “ ima- 
gined he had no more ado to settle the revenues of the Church 
in what form he pleased to chalk out than to go hither and 
thither with a mob of people at his heels, and order them to 
pull down the fabric of the churches ” — and then call them 
“a rascal multitude.” But “these good men, whom he called 


332 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


saints and professors, could hardly be prevailed with to allow 
him bread to his belly, after they had entered into possession 
of the Church.” Knox himself resented the phrase, attri- 
buted by Scott to Murray, so much that he quotes the very 
term “ devoit imaginationnis ” in his remarks on “ The Buik of 
Discipline.” 


June 1893. 


Andrew Lang. 


GLOSSARY, 


A', all. 

Aby, abye, to suffer, to endure. 
Ado, to do. 

Adverteis, to inform. 

Ala, alsua, also. 

An, if. 

Andrea Ferrara, a sword of the 
finest steel, so called after the 
maker. 

Anent, opposite, concerning. 
Apparitor, an officer of a spiritual 
court. 

Argute, sharp, acute. 

Arles, earnest money. 

Assoilzie, to acquit. 

A-trowling, a-rolling. 

Aught, anything; adso, eight. 
Auld, old. 

Aver, a cart-horse. 

Awmous, alms. 

Ay, yes. 

Bailie, a magistrate. 

Baith, both. 

Baldric, a richly ornamented 
girdle. 

Ballatis, ballads. 

Ban-dog, a large fierce dog, 
sometimes used for baiting. 
Band, bound. 

Bangsters, disorderly persons. 
Barret-cap, a military cap. 
Basnet, a helmet. 

Beef-brewis, beef-broth. 

Befoir, before. 

Benison, a blessing. 

Beshrew, to execrate. 

Bicld, shelter. 

Bilbo, a sword. 

Birlit, drove steadily. 

Blink, glance. 


Bode, to forebode, to portend. 
Bodle, a small copper coin. 

“ Border doom,” death. 
Bounden, bound, obliged. 

Brag, to defy. 

Brancher, a young crow. 
Brownie, a spirit. 

Buith, a booth, a shop. 
Bumbast, bombast, a stuff used 
to swell garments. 

Caliburn, the sword of King 
Arthur. 

Callit, called. 

Canny, easy, careful. 

Capriole, a leap made by a horse 
without advancing. 

Cast, a flight. 

Cast (of hawks), the number let 
go at once. 

Castand, casting. 

Cates, delicacies. 

Caudle, a warm drink. 

Causit, caused 

“ Certes, by my,” by my troth ! 
Chafe, passion. 

Change-house, an ale-house. 
Chastise, to repress. 

Chuff, a clown. 

Churl, a peasant, a rustic. 

Clink, a blow or stroke. 

” Cock of the North,” the Earl 
of Huntly. 

“ Cockles of the heart,” the in- 
most recesses of the heart. 
Cog, to deceive. 

Cogging, drinking. 
Commendater, the holder of a 
benefice. 

Condemnit, condempnit, con- 
demned. 


334 


GLOSSARY. 


** Congregation, Lords of the,*’ 
the leaders of the. Scottish 
Reformation party. 

Coneys, rabbits. 

Cordinare, a cordwainer, a shoe- 
maker. 

Coronach, a dirge. 

Crack-hemp, -halter, -rope, a 
gallows-bird. 

Craftischilder, fellow-craftsmen. 

Craftismen, craftsmen. 

Crombie, crummy, a crooked- 
horn cow. 

“ Crown of the causeway,” the 
middle of the street. 

” Crown of the sun,” an old 
French gold coin of Louis XI. 
and Charles VIII. = 14s. 

Cuittle, to wheedle, to tickle. 

Culverin, a long light gun. 

Cum, come. 

Custodier, a keeper. 

Cutt, a fool. 

Danske, Danish. 

Deaconis, presidents of incor- 
porated trades. 

” Debateable land,” the Border 
country. 

Debit, misdemeanour. 

Dight your gabs ! ” wipe your 
mouths ! be silent ! 

Dink, to deck. 

Dirk, a dagger ; also, to stab. 

Dispart, to divide. 

“ Disponit upoun,” disposed of. 

Dore, a door. 

Dorture, a dormitory. 

Douce, sober, sedate. 

Dow, a dove. 

Dudgeon, a small dagger. 

” E la,” the extreme. 

E’en, even. 

Enow, enough. 

Espial, a spy. 

Eyas, a young hawk. 

Fa’, fall. 

Falchion, a short crooked sword. 

Falconet, a small cannon. 

Pash, trouble. 


Favoraris, favourers 

” First head,” the finest head 
of deer. 

Pleech, to flatter, to cajole. 

“ Flesh and fell,” muscle and 
skin. 

Forehand, the part of a horse 
before the rider. 

“ Poxir-hours penny,” the four- 
o’clock meal. 

Pox, an old-fashioned broad- 
sword. 

Pro, from. 

Frounce, a distemper. 

Gae, go. 

Galliard, a lively dance ; also, a 
gay youth. 

Gambade, gambol. 

Garnish, an ornament. 

Gate, road, way. 

Gaze-hound, a hound that pur- 
sues by sight. 

Gear, matter. 

Gentles, gentlefolk. 

“ Gestic lore,” knowledge of 
gestures, dancing. 

Gled, a kite. 

Gleg, quick of perception. 

Gon, gone, past. 

Gospellers, Reformers. 

Gousty, ghostly. 

Gowd, to lay,” to embroider 
in gold. 

Gramercy, thanks. 

” Grey groat,” a base coin, re- 
presenting a thing of little or 
no value. 

Gude, good. 

Hackit, white-faced. 

Hae, have. 

Hagg, brushwood. 

Haggard, a species of hawk. 

Haid, had. 

Halidome, land held under a 
religious house. 

Hangit, hanged. 

Hap, chance, happen. 

” Hard money,” cash. 

** Harried out,” plundered of 
everything. 


GLOSSARY. 


335 


“ Harry groat,” a groat of the 
time of Henry VI II. 

“ Hie Streit,” Higli Street. 
Hodden grey,” rough cloth, 
the natural colour of the 
wool. 

Hoodie-crow, the carrion crow. 

“ Home, put to ye,” denounced 
as a rebel. 

Hours, certain prayers in the 
Roman Church to be said at 
stated times. 

Howlet, the owl. 

Huissier, an usher. 

Hk, of the same name. 

Hka, each, every. 

Imp, to graft. 

Injeer, to introduce by artful 
methods. 

Intellects, parts, faculties. 

Tackanape, a monkey. 

Jackman, an armed retainer. 

Jeddart, Jedburgh. 

Jerking, a beating. 

Jibbat, a gibbet. 

Jiggeting, shaking up and down. 

Jouk, to duck, to stoop. 

“ Jouk and let the jaw gang 
by,” stoop and let the wave 
pass. 

Juleps, sweet drinks, mixtures. 

Kail, colewort. 

Kale, broth made of greens. 

Keepit, kept. 

Kelpie, an imaginary spirit of 
the waters. 

Ken’d, known. 

Kestril-kite, an inferior kind of 
hawk ; a mean fellow. 

Kirk, a church. 

Kirtle, a gown. 

Kittle, difficult. 

Knave, a boy, a rascal. 

Knawledge, trial. 

Landward, rural, inland. 

Lang, long. 

Lang-kale, long or unshorn 
colewort. 


Langsyne, long since. 

Lawing, a reckoning, a tavern 
bill. 

** Least penny,” the least piece 
of money ; also, a worthless 
person. 

Ledder, a ladder. 

Lenten-kail, broth made with- 
out beef. 

Lick, a blow. 

Limbo-lake, an imaginary re- 
gion beyond this world. 

Ling, thin long grass, heather. 
List, to wish, to choose. 

Lither, lazy. 

Loaning, greensward on which 
cows are grazed. 

Lockeram, coarse linen. 
Lubbard, a cl6wn. 

Luckand, looking. 

Limt, a lighted match. 

Lurdane, a worthless fellow. 

Mail, a bag with apparel. 
Makebate, an exciter of conten- 
tions, a mischief-maker. 
Malapert, impertinent. 

Malison, a curse. 

Marry, indeed, forsooth. 

“ Marry come up,” indeed. 
Marys, the designation given to 
the maids-of-honour in Scot- 
land. 

Mavis, the thrush. 

Mazed, bewildered. 

Mazzard, the jaw. 

Men-quellers, murderers. 
Merlin, a species of hawk. 
Messan, a small dog. 
Messan-page, cur of a page. 
Mint, to aim at. 

Morion, a kind of helmet. 
Mumchance, an old game at 
cards. 

Nicknackets, trifles. 

Nonce, occasion. 

O’, of. 

Oblast, obliged. 

Onnawayes, in no way. 

On’t, of it 


336 


GLOSSARY. 


Ostlere-wife, the keeper of an 
hostelry. 

Otisel, the dipper bird. 

Ower, over, too. 

Paip, the Pope. 

Pantler, the keeper of the pan- 
try, one in charge of provis- 
ions. 

Pantoufle, a slipper. 

Papistrie, Popery. 

“ Parcel poet,*’ a bit of a poet. 

Pasche, Easter. 

“ Pearlin muflaer,” a lace veil. 

Peel-house, a small square tower 
of stone and lime, used for de- 
fence. 

Pickthank, a mischief-maker. 

Pinners, a female headdress. 

Pith, power, strength. 

Plack, a small copper coin. 

Popinjay, a parrot, a fop. 

Pottle, a bottle. 

Pottle-pot, a vessel holding two 
quarts. 

Pouch, a pocket. 

Prensit, sought. 

Presonaris, prisoners. 

Pricking, running. 

Propale, to publish. 

Puir, poor. 

Quean, a young woman. 

Quha, who. 

Quhan, when. 

Quhele, a wheeL 

Quhilk, which. 

Quhill, till. 

“ Quit bridle, quit titt,” leave 
bridle, lose horse. 

Raid, inroad, attack. 

Rebeck, a three-stringed musical 
instrument. 

Redder’s lick,** the blow that 
often falls on one who inter- 
feres in a quarrel. 

Rede, counsel. 

Reft, deprived, bereft, snatched. 

Religioner, an ecclesiastic. 

Rochet, a sort of surplice worn 
by bishops. 


Rock, a distaff. 

Ruff, a puckered linen ornament 
for neck. 

RuflF, a rough undressed staff. 
Sae, so. 

Samyne, same. 

Sangs, songs. 

ScaUt, dispersed. 

Schort, short. 

Schuteand, shooting. 

Se, see. 

Sel’, self. 

Shaveling, a priest. 

Shoon, shoes. 

Sith, seeing that, since. 

Slashed, dressed with cuts to 
show rich lining. 

Sleeveless, unreasonable. 

“ Slip tether,** get away. 
Slogan, a war-cry. 

Slut, an untidy woman. 
Sniggling, smirking. 

Solistatnis, solicitude. 

Sooth, true, truth. 

Sough, the sound of the wind. 

* ‘ Calm sough,** a quiet tongue. 
Springald, a stripling. 

Stammel, reddish. 

Steiket, shut. 

Stilet, a stiletto, a small dagger. 
Stoup, a vessel or measure for 
liquids. 

Straike, a busheL 
Strap, be hanged. 

Sua, so. , 

Suld, should. 

Superceid, suspend. 

Swart, black, tawny. 

Syne, since, ago. 

**Tace is Iiatin for candle,** 
silence is the word. 

Tale-pyet, a tell-tale. 

Tent, to attend. 

Tercel, the male falcon. 
Thairintill, therein. 

Tilburyt a gig. 

Tillyvally, rejecting as imperti- 
nent. 

Tolbuyt, tolbooth, jaiL 
Trangam, a trinket. 


GLOSSARY. 


337 


Trencher, a wooden plate. 
Treasure — in heraldry, a kind 
of border. 

Troth, truth, sure. 

Trow, to think, to believe. 

“ Two and plack,” two bodbs 
and a plack. 

Usquebaugh, whisky. 

Vertugardin, a hoop petticoat. 
Vivers, victuals. 

Wallop, quick motion, 

Wanion, vengeance, the devil. 
Wap, flap. 

Waur, worse. 

Weasand, the throat. 


Weird, fate, destiny. 

Wes, was. 

Wha, who. 

Whaup, a curlew. 

Wholly, to gull, to wheedle. 
Whilom, formerly. 

Whinger, a short hanger or 
sword, sometimes used as a 
knife at meals. 

Win, to get. 

Winderly, to undergo. 

Wonot, will not. 

Wot, to know. 

Wrang, wrong. 

Wylie-coat, an under-vest. 

Yoldring, a yellow-hammer (a 
bird). 


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THE ABBOT 


CHAPTER 1 

Could valour aught avail or people’s love, 

France had not wept Navarre’s brave Henry slain ; 
If wit or beauty could compassion move, 

The Rose of Scotland had not wept in vain. 

Elegy in a Royal Mausoleum. — Lewis. 


At the gate of the court-yard of Lochleven ap- 
peared the stately form of the Lady of Lochleven, 
a female whose early charms had captivated James 
V., by whom she became mother of the celebrated 
Kegent Murray. As she was of noble birth (being 
a daughter of the House of Mar) and of great beauty, 
her intimacy with James did not prevent her being 
afterwards sought in honourable marriage by many 
gallants of the time, among whom she had preferred 
Sir William Douglas of Lochleven. But well has it 
been said, 

“ Om pleasant vices 

Are made the whips to scourge us ” — 

The station which the Lady of Lochleven now held 
as the wife of a man of high rank and interest, and 
the mother of a lawful family, did not prevent her 
nourishing a painful sense of degradation, even while 
she was proud of the talents, the power, and the 
station of her son, now prime ruler of the state, but 
still a pledge of her illicit intercourse. “ Had James 

TOL. n.— 1 


s 


THE ABBOT. 


done to her,” she said, in her secret heart, “ the 
justice he owed her, she had seen in her son, as a 
source of unmixed delight and of unchastened pride, 
the lawful monarch of Scotland, and one of the 
ablest who ever swayed the sceptre. The House 
of Mar, not inferior in antiquity or grandeur to 
that of Drummond, would then have also boasted a 
Queen among its daughters, and escaped the stain 
attached to female frailty, even when it has a royal 
lover for its apology.” While such feelings preyed 
on a bosom naturally proud and severe, they had a 
corresponding effect on her countenance, where, with 
the remains of great beauty, were mingled traits 
indicative of inward discontent and peevish melan- 
choly. It perhaps contributed to increase this ha- 
bitual temperament, that the Lady Lochleven had 
adopted uncommonly rigid and severe views of re- 
ligion, imitating in her ideas of reformed faith the 
very worst errors of the Catholics, in limiting the 
benefit of the gospel to those who profess their own 
speculative tenets. 

In every respect, the unfortunate Queen Mary, 
now the compulsory guest, or rather prisoner, of 
this sullen lady, was obnoxious to her hostess. Lady 
Lochleven disliked her as the daughter of Mary 
of Guise, the legal possessor of those rights over 
James’s heart and hand, of which she conceived 
herself to have been injuriously deprived; and yet * 
more so as the professor of a religion which she 
detested worse than Paganism. 

Such was the dame, who, with stately mien, and 
sharp yet handsome features, shrouded by her black 
velvet coif, interrogated the domestic who steered 
her barge to the shore, what had become of Lindesay 
and Sir Kobert Melville. The man related what 


THE ABBOT. 


3 


had passed, and she smiled scornfully as she replied, 

Fools must be flattered, not foughten with. — Eow 
hack — make thy excuse as thou canst — say Lord 
Kuthven hath already reached this castle, and that 
he is impatient for Lord Lindesay’s presence. Away 
with thee, Eandal — yet stay — what galopin is that 
thou hast brought hither ? ” 

“ So please you, my lady, he is the page who is 
to wait upon ” 

“ Ay, the new male minion,” said the Lady Loch- 
leven ; “ the female attendant arrived yesterday. I 
shall have a well-ordered house with this lady and 
her retinue; but I trust they will soon find some 
others to undertake such a charge. Begone, Ean- 
dal — and you ” (to Eoland Grseme) “ follow me to 
the garden.” 

She led the way with a slow and stately step to 
the small garden, which, enclosed by a stone wall 
ornamented with statues, and an artificial fountain 
in the centre, extended its dull parterres on the side 
of the court-yard, with which it communicated by a 
low and arched portal. Within the narrow circuit 
of its formal and limited walks, Mary Stewart was 
now learning to perform the weary part of a pri- 
soner, which, with little interval, she was doomed 
to sustain during the remainder of her life. She 
was followed in her slow and melancholy exercise 
by two female attendants ; but in the first glance 
which Eoland Graeme bestowed upon one so illus- 
trious by birth, so distinguished by her beauty, ac- 
complishments, and misfortunes, he was sensible of 
the presence of no other than the unhappy Queen 
of Scotland. 

Her face, her form, have been so deeply impressed 
upon the imagination, that, even at the distance 


4 


THE ABBOT. 


of nearly three centuries, it is unnecessary to remind 
the most ignorant and uninformed reader of the 
striking traits which characterise that remarkable 
countenance, which seems at once to combine our 
ideas of the majestic, the pleasing, and the brilliant, 
leaving us to doubt whether they exf)ress most hap- 
pily the queen, the beauty, or the accomplished wo- 
man. Who is there, that, at the very mention of 
Mary Stewart’s'name, has not her countenance before 
him, familiar as that of the mistress of his youth, or 
the favourite daughter of his advanced age ? Even 
those who feel themselves compelled to believe all, 
or much, of what her enemies laid to her charge, 
cannot think without a sigh upon a countenance ex- 
pressive of any thing rather than the foul crimes with 
which she was charged when living, and which still 
continue to shade, if not to blacken, her memory. 
That brow, so truly open and regal — those eye- 
brows, so regularly graceful, which yet were saved 
from the charge of regular insipidity by the beauti- 
ful effect of the hazel eyes which they over-arched, 
and which seem to utter a thousand histories — the 
nose, with all its Grecian precision of outline — the 
mouth, so well proportioned, so sweetly formed, as 
if designed to speak nothing but what was delight- 
ful to hear — the dimpled chin — the stately swan- 
like neck, form a countenance, the like of which we 
know not to have existed in any other character mov- 
ing in that high class of life, where the actresses as 
well as the actors command general and undivided 
attention. It is in vain to say that the portraits which 
exist of this remarkable woman are not like each 
other ; for, amidst their discrepancy, each possesses 
general features which the eye at once acknowledges 
as peculiar to the vision which our imagination has 


THE ABBOT. 


5 


raised while we read her history for the first time, 
and which has been impressed upon it by the nume- 
rous prints and pictures which we have seen. In- 
deed we cannot look on the worst of them, however 
deficient in point of execution, without saying that 
it is meant for Queen Mary ; and no small instance 
it is of the power of beauty, that her charms should 
have remained the subject not merely of admira- 
tion, but of warm and chivalrous interest, after the 
lapse of such a length of time. We know that by 
far the most acute of those who, in latter days, have 
adopted the unfavourable view of Mary’s character, 
longed, like the executioner before his dreadful task 
was performed, to kiss the fair hand of her on whom 
he was about to perform so horrible a duty. 

Dressed, then, in a deep mourning robe, and with 
all those charms of face, shape, and manner, with 
which faithful tradition has made each reader fa- 
miliar, Mary Stewart advanced to meet the Lady of 
Lochleven, who, on her part, endeavoured to conceal 
dislike and apprehension under the appearance of re- 
spectful indifference. The truth was, that she had 
experienced repeatedly the Queen’s superiority in 
that species of disguised yet cutting sarcasm, with 
which women can successfully avenge themselves, 
for real and substantial injuries. It may be well 
doubted, whether this talent was not as fatal to its 
^ possessor as the many others enjoyed by that highly 
gifted, but most unhappy female ; for, while it often 
afforded her a momentary triumph over her keepers, 
it failed not to exasperate their resentment; and 
the satire and sarcasm in which she had indulged, 
were frequently retaliated by the deep and bitter 
hardships which they had the power of inflicting. 
It is well known that her death was at length 


6 


THE ABBOT. 


hastened by a letter which she wrote to Queen 
Elizabeth, in which she treated her jealous rival, 
and the Countess of Shrewsbury, with the keenest 
irony -and ridicule. 

As the ladies met together, the Queen said, bend- 
ing her head at the same time in return to the obei- 
sance of the Lady Lochleven, “We are this day 
fortunate — we enjoy the company of our amiable 
hostess at an unusual hour, and during a period 
which we have hitherto been permitted to give to 
our private exercise. But our good hostess knows 
well she has at all times access to our presence, and 
need not observe the useless ceremony of requiring 
our permission.” 

“ I am sorry my presence is deemed an intrusion 
by your Grace,” said the Lady of Lochleven. “ I 
came but to announce the arrival of an addition to 
your train,” motioning with her hand towards Bo- 
land Graeme ; “ a circumstance to which ladies are 
seldom indifferent.” 

“ 0 ! I crave your ladyship’s pardon ; and am bent 
to the earth with obligations for the kindness of my 
nobles — or my sovereigns, shall I call them ? — 
who have permitted me such a respectable addition 
to my personal retinue.” 

“They have indeed studied, madam,” said the 
Lady of Lochleven, “to show their kindness to- 
wards your Grace — something at the risk perhaps 
of sound policy, and I trust their doings will not be 
misconstrued.” 

“ Impossible ! ” said the Queen ; “ the bounty which 
permits the daughter of so many kings, and who yet 
is Queen of the realm, the attendance of two waiting- 
women and a boy, is a grace which Mary Stewart can 
never sufficiently acknowledge. Why ! my train will 


THE ABBOT. 


7 


be equal to that of any country-dame in this your 
kingdom of Fife, saving but the lack of a gentleman- 
usher, and a pair or two of blue-coated serving-men. 
But I must not forget, in my selfish joy, the addi- 
tional trouble and charges to which this magnificent 
augmentation of our train will put our kind hostess, 
and the whole house of Lochleven. It is this pru- 
dent anxiety, I am aware, which clouds your brows, 
my worthy lady. But be of good cheer ; the crown 
of Scotland has many a fair manor, and your affec- 
tionate son, and my no less affectionate brother, will 
endow the good knight your husband with the best 
of them, ere Mary should be dismissed from this 
hospitable castle from your ladyship’s lack of means 
to support the charges.” 

“ The Douglasses of Lochleven, madam,” answered 
the lady, “have known for ages how to discharge 
their duty to the State, without looking for re- 
ward, even when the task was both irksome and 
dangerous.” 

“ Nay ! but, my dear Lochleven,” said the Queen, 
“ you are over scrupulous — I pray you accept of a 
goodly manor; what should support the Queen of 
Scotland in this her princely court, saving her own 
crown-lands — and who should minister to the wants 
of a mother, save an affectionate son like the Earl of 
Murray, who possesses so wonderfully both the power 
and inclination ? — Or said you it was the danger of 
the task which clouded your smooth and hospitable 
brow ? — No doubt, a page is a formidable addition 
to my body-guard of females ; and I bethink me it 
must have been for that reason that my Lord of 
Lindesay refused even now to venture within the 
reach of a force so formidable, without being at- 
tended by a competent retinue.” 


8 


THE ABBOT. 


The Lady Lochleven started, and looked some- 
thing surprised ; and Mary, suddenly changing her 
manner from the smooth ironical affectation of mild- 
ness to an accent of austere command, and drawing 
up at the same time her fine person, said, with the 
full majesty of her rank, “ Yes ! Lady of Lochleven ; 
I know that Kuthven is already in the castle, and 
that Lindesay waits on the bank the return of your 
barge to bring him hither along with Sir Eobert 
Melville. For what purpose do the;3e npbles come 
— and why am I not in ordinary decency apprised 
of their arrival ? ” 

“Their purpose, madam,” replied the Lady of 
Lochleven, “they must themselves explain — but 
a formal annunciation were needless, where your 
Grace hath attendants who can play the espial so 
well.” 

‘ Alas ! poor Fleming,” said the Queen, turning to 
the elder of the female attendants, “thou wilt be 
tried, condemned, and gibbeted, for a spy in the gar- 
rison, because thou didst chance to cross the great 
hall while my good Lady of Lochleven was parley- 
ing at the full’ pitch of her voice with her pilot 
Eandal. Put black wool in thy ears, girl, as you 
value the wearing of them longer. Eemember, in 
the Castle of Lochleven, ears and tongues are mat- 
ters not of use, but for show merely. Our good 
hostess can hear, as well as speak, for us all. — We 
excuse your further attendance, my lady hostess,” 
she said, once more addressing the object of her re- 
sentment, “and retire to prepare for an interview 
with our rebel lords. We will use the ante-chamber 
of our sleeping apartment as our hall of audience. — 
You, young man,” she proceeded, addressing Poland 
Graeme, and at once spftening the ironical sharpness 


THE ABBOT. 


9 


of her manner into good-humoured raillery, “you, 
who are all our male attendance, from our Lord 
High Chamberlain down to our least galopin, follow 
us to prepare our court.” 

She turned, and walked slowly towards the castle. 
The Lady of Lochleven folded her arms, and smiled 
in bitter resentment, as she watched her retiring 
steps. 

“ Thy whole male attendance ! ” she muttered, re- 
peating the Queen’s last words, “ and well for thee 
had it been had thy train never been larger ; ” then 
turning to Eoland, in whose way she had stood 
while making this pause, she made room for him to 
pass, saying at the same time, “Art thou already 
eaves-dropping ? follow thy mistress, minion, and, if 
thou wilt, tell her what I have now said.” 

Eoland Graeme hastened after his royal mistress 
and her attendants, who had just entered a postem- 
gate communicating betwixt the castle and the small 
garden. They ascended a winding-stair as high as 
the second story, which was in a great measure oc- 
cupied by a suite of three rooms, opening into each 
other, and assigned as the dwelling of the captive 
Princess. The outermost was a small hall or ante- 
room, within which opened a large parlour, and from 
that again the Queen’s bedroom. Another small apart- 
ment, which opened into the same parlour, contained 
the beds of the gentlewomen in waiting. 

Eoland Graeme stopped, as became his station, in 
the outermost of these apartments, there to await 
such orders as might be communicated to him. 
Prom the grated window of th^ room he saw Linde- 
say, Melville, and their followers, disembark ; and 
observed that they were met at the castle gate by 
a third noble, to whom Lindesay exclaimed, in his 


lO 


THE ABBOT. 


loud harsh voice, “ My Lord of Euthven, you have 
the start of us ! ” 

At this instant, the page’s attention was called to 
a burst of hysterical sobs from the inner apartment, 
and to the hurried ejaculations of the terrified 
females, which led him almost instantly to hasten 
to their assistance. When he entered, he saw that 
the Queen had thrown herself into the large chair 
which stood nearest the door, and was sobbing for 
breath in a strong fit of hysterical affection. The 
elder female supported her in her arms, while the 
younger bathed her face with water and with tears 
alternately. 

Hasten, young man ! ” said the elder lady, in 
alarm, “ fly — call in assistance — she is swooning ! ” 

But the Queen ejaculated in a faint and broken 
voice, “ Stir not, I charge you ! — call no one to wit- 
ness — I am better — I shall recover instantly.” 
And, indeed, with an effort which seemed like that 
of one struggling for life, she sate up in her chair, 
and endeavoured to resume her composure, while 
her features yet trembled with the violent emotion 
of body and mind which she had undergone. I 
am ashamed of my weakness, girls,” she said, taking 
the hands of her attendants ; “ but it is over — and 
I am Mary Stewart once more. The savage tone of 
that man’s voice — my knowledge of his insolence 

— the name which he named — the purpose for 
which they come, may excuse a moment’s weakness 

— and it shall be a moment’s only.” She snatched 
from her head the curch or cap, which had been 
disordered during her hysterical agony — shook 
down the thick clustered tresses of dark brown 
which had been before veiled under it — and, draw- 
ing her slender fingers across the labyrinth which 


THE ABBOT. 


II 


they formed, she arose from the chair, and stood like 
the inspired image of a Grecian prophetess, in a 
mood which partook at once of sorrow and pride, of 
smiles and of tears. “We are ill appointed,” she 
said, “ to ijaeet our rebel subjects ; but, as far as we 
may, we will strive to present ourselves as becomes 
their Queen. Follow me, my maidens,” she said; 
“ what says thy favourite song, my Fleming ? 

‘ My maids, come to my dressing-bower, 

And deck my nut-brown hair; 

Where’er ye laid a plait before, 

Look ye lay ten times mair.’ 

Alas ! ” she added, when she had repeated with a 
smile these lines of an old ballad, “ violence has al- 
ready robbed me of the ordinary decorations of my 
rank ; and the few that nature gave me have been 
destroyed by sorrow and by fear.” Yet while she 
spoke thus, she again let her slender fingers stray 
through the wilderness of the beautiful tresses 
which veiled her kingly neck and swelling bosom, 
as if, in her agony of mind, she had not altogether 
lost the consciousness of her unrivalled charms. 
Eoland Graeme, on whose youth, inexperience, and 
ardent sense of what was dignified and lovely, the 
demeanour of so fair and high-born a lady wrought 
like the charm of a magician, stood rooted to the 
spot with surprise and interest, longing to hazard 
his life in a quarrel so fair as that which Mary 
Stewart’s must needs be. She had been bred in 
France — she was possessed of the most distin- 
guished beauty — she had reigned a Queen, and a 
Scottish Queen, to whom knowledge of character 
was as essential as the use of vital air. In all these 
capacities, Mary was, of all women on the earth, most 


12 


THE ABBOT. 


alert at perceiving and using the advantages which 
her charms gave her over almost all who came 
within the sphere of their influence. She cast on 
Eoland a glance which might have melted a heart 
of stone. “ My poor hoy,” she said, with a feeling 
partly real, partly politic, “ thou art a stranger to us 
— sent to this doleful captivity from the society of 
some tender mother, or sister, or maiden, with whom 
you had freedom to tread a gay measure round the 
Maypole. I grieve for you ; — but you are the only 
male in my limited household — wilt thou obey my 
orders ? ” 

“ To the death, madam,” said Graeme, in a deter- 
mined tone. 

“Then keep the door of mine apartment,” said 
the Queen ; “ keep it till they offer actual violence, 
or till we shall he fitly arrayed to receive these in- 
trusive visitors.” 

“ I will defend it till they pass over my body,” 
said Eoland Graeme ; any hesitation which he had 
felt concerning the line of conduct he ought to pur- 
sue, being completely swept away by the impulse of 
the moment. 

“Not so, my good youth,” answered Mary; “not 
so, I command thee. If I have one faithful subject 
beside me, much need, God wot, I have to care for 
his safety. Eesist them hut till they are put to 
the shame of using actual violence, and then give 
way I charge you. Eemember my commands.” 
And, with a smile expressive at once of favour and of 
authority, she turned from him, and, followed by her 
attendants, entered the bedroom. 

The youngest paused for half a second ere she 
followed her companion, and made a signal to Eo- 
land Graeme with her hand. He had been already 


THE ABBOT. 


13 


long aware that this was Catherine Seyton — a cir- 
cumstance which could not much surprise a youth 
of quick intellects, who recollected the sort of myste- 
rious discourse which had passed betwixt the two 
matrons at the deserted nunnery, and on which his 
meeting with Catherine in this place seemed to cast 
so much light. Yet such was the engrossing effect 
of Mary’s presence, that it surmounted for the mo- 
ment even the feelings of a youthful lover ; and it 
was not until Catherine Seyton had disappeared, 
that Eoland began to consider in what relation they 
were to stand to each other. — “ She held up her 
hand to me in a commanding manner,” he thought ; 
“ perhaps she wanted to confirm my purpose for the 
execution of the Queen’s commands ; for I think she 
could scarce purpose to scare me with the sort of 
discipline which she administered to the groom in 
the frieze jacket, and to poor Adam Woodcock. But 
we will see to that anon ; meantime, let us do justice 
to the trust reposed in us by this unhappy Queen. 
I think my Lord of Murray will himself own that 
it is the duty of a faithful page to defend his lady 
against intrusion on her privacy.” 

Accordingly, he stepped to the little vestibule, 
made fast, with lock and bar, the door which opened 
from thence to the large staircase, and then sat him- 
self down to attend the result. He had not long to 
wait — a rude and strong hand first essayed to lift 
the latch, then pushed and shook the door with vio- 
lence, and, when it resisted his attempt to open it, 
exclaimed, Undo the door there, you within ! ” 

“ Why, and at whose command,” said the page, " am 
I to undo the door of the apartments of the Queen of 
Scotland?” 

Another vain attempt, which made hinge and bolt? 


THE ABBOT. 


H 

jingle, showed that the impatient applicant without 
would willingly have entered altogether regardless 
of his challenge; but at length an answer was 
returned. 

“ Undo the door, on your peril — the Lord Linde- 
say comes to speak with the Lady Mary of Scotland.” 

“ The Lord Lindesay, as a Scottish noble,” answered 
the page, “ must await his Sovereign’s leisure.” 

An earnest altercation ensued amongst those with- 
out, in which Koland distinguished the remarkably 
harsh voice of Lindesay in reply to Sir Eobert Mel- 
ville, who appeared to have been using some sooth- 
ing language — “No! no! no! I tell thee, no! I 
will place a petard against the door rather than be 
baulked by a profligate woman, and bearded by an 
insolent footboy.” 

“ Yet, at least,” said Melville, “ let me try fair 
means in the first instance. Violence to a lady would 
stain your scutcheon for ever. Or await till my Lord 
Euthven comes.” 

“ I will wait no longer,” said Lindesay ; “ it is high 
time the business were done, and we on our return 
to the council. But thou mayst try thy fair play, as 
thou callest it, while I cause my train to prepare the 
petard. I came hither provided with as good gun- 
powder as blew up the Kirk of Field.” 

“ For God’s sake, be patient,” said Melville ; and, 
approaching the door, he said, as speaking to those 
within, “ Let the Queen know that I, her faithful 
servant, Eobert Melville, do entreat her, for her own 
sake, and to prevent worse consequences, that she 
will undo the door, and admit Lord Lindesay, who 
brings a mission from the Council of State.” 

“ I will do your errand to the Queen,” said the 
page, “ and roport to you her answer,” 


THE ABBOT; 


IS 

He went to the door of the bedchamber, and tap- 
ping against it gently, it was opened by the elder 
lady, to whom he communicated his errand, and re- 
turned with directions from the Queen to admit Sir 
Eobert Melville and Lord Lindesay. Eoland Graeme 
returned to the vestibule, and opened the door ac- 
cordingly, into which the Lord Lindesay strode, with 
the air of a soldier who has fought his way into a 
conquered fortress ; while Melville, deeply dejected, 
followed him more slowly. 

“ I draw you to witness, and to record,” said the 
page to this last, “ that, save for the especial com- 
mands of the Queen, I would have made good the 
entrance, with my best strength, and my best blood, 
against all Scotland.” 

“ Be silent, young man,” said Melville, in a tone of 
grave rebuke ; “ add not brands to fire — this is no 
time to make a flourish of thy boyish chivalry.” 

“ She has not appeared even yet,” said Lindesay, 
who had now reached the midst of the parlour or 
audience-room ; “ how call you this trifling ? ” 

“Patience, my lord,” replied Sir Eobert, “time 
presses not — and Lord Euthven hath not as yet 
descended.” 

At this moment the door of the inner apartment 
opened, and Queen Mary presented herself, advancing 
with an air of peculiar grace and majesty, and seem- 
ing totally unruffled, either by the visit, or by the 
rude manner in which it had been enforced. Her 
dress was a robe of black velvet ; a small ruff, open 
in front, gave a full view of her beautifully-formed 
chin and neck, but veiled the bosom. On her head 
she wore a small cap of lace, and a transparent 
white veil hung from her shoulders over the long 
black robe, in large loose folds, so that it could be 


i6 ,THE ABBOT. 

drawn at pleasure over the face and person. She 
wore a cross of gold around her neck, and had her 
rosary of gold and ebony hanging from her girdle. 
She was closely followed by her two ladies, who re- 
mained standing behind her during the conference. 
Even Lord Lindesay, though the rudest noble of 
that rude age, was surprised into something like re- 
spect by the unconcerned and majestic mien of her, 
whom he had expected to find frantic with impotent 
passion, or dissolved in useless and vain sorrow, or 
overwhelmed with the fears likely in such a situation 
to assail fallen royalty. 

“We fear we have detained you, my Lord of Linde- 
say,” said the Queen, while she curtsied with dignity 
in answer to his reluctant obeisance ; “ but a female 
does not willingly receive her visitors without some 
minutes spent at the toilette. Men, my lord, are less 
dependent on such ceremonies.” 

Lord Lindesay, casting his eye down on his own 
travel-stained and disordered dress, muttered some- 
thing of a hasty journey, and the Queen paid her 
greeting to Sir Eobert Melville with courtesy, and 
even, as it seemed, with kindness. There was then a 
dead pause, during which Lindesay looked towards the 
door, as if expecting with impatience the colleague of 
their embassy. The Queen alone was entirely un- 
embarrassed, and, as if to break the silence, she 
addressed Lord Lindesay, with a glance at the large 
and cumbrous sword which he wore, as already men- 
tioned, hanging from his neck. 

“ You have there a trusty and a weighty travelling 
companion, my lord. I trust you expected to meet 
with no enemy here, against whom such a formi- 
dable weapon could be necessary ? It is, methinks, 
somewhat a singular ornament for a court, though I 


THE ABBOT. 


17 

am, as I well need to be, too much of a Stewart to 
fear a sword.” 

“ It is not the first time, madam,” replied Lindesay, 
bringing round the weapon so as to rest its point on 
the ground, and leaning one hand on the huge cross- 
handle, “ it is not the first time that this weapon has 
intruded itself into the presence of the House of 
Stewart.” 

“ Possibly, my lord,” replied the Queen, “it may 
have done service to my ancestors — Your ancestors 
were men of loyalty.” 

“ Ay, madam,” replied he, “ service it hath done ; 
but such as kings love neither to acknowledge nor 
to reward. It was the service which the knife ren- 
ders to the tree when trimming it to the quick, and 
depriving it of the superfluous growth of rank and 
unfruitful siftkers, which rob it of nourishment.” 

“ You talk riddles, my lord,” said Mary ; “ I 
will hope the explanation carries nothing insulting 
with it.” 

“You shall judge, madam,” answered Lindesay. 
“ With this good sword was Archibald Douglas, 
Earl of Angus, girded on the memorable day when 
he acquired the name of Bell-the-Cat, for dragging 
from the presence of your great-grandfather, the 
third James of the race, a crew of minions, flatterers, 
and favourites, whom he hanged over the bridge 
of Lauder, as a warning to such reptiles how they 
approach a Scottish throne. With this same wea- 
pon, the same inflexible champion of Scottish honour 
and nobility, slew at one blow Spens of Kilspindie, 
a courtier of your grandfather, James the Fourth, 
who had dared to speak lightly of him in the royal 
presence. They fought near the brook of Fala ; and 
Bell-the-Cat, with this blade, sheared through the 

VOL. II. — 2 


i8 


THE ABBOT. 


thigh of his opponent, and lopped the limb as easily 
as a shepherd’s boy slices a twig from a sapling.” 

“My lord,” replied the Queen, reddening, “my 
nerves are too good to be alarmed even by this ter- 
rible history — May I ask how a blade so illustrious 
passed from the House of Douglas to that of Linde- 
say ? — Methinks it should have been preserved as 
a consecrated relic, by a family who have held all 
that they could do against their king, to be done in 
favour of their country.” 

“ Nay, madam,” said Melville, anxiously inter- 
fering, “ask not that question of Lord Lindesay 

And you, my lord, for shame — for decency — 
forbear to reply to it.” 

“ It is time that this lady should hear the truth,” 
replied Lindesay. 

“ And be assured,” said the Queen, “ that she will 
be moved to anger by none that you can tell her, my 
lord. There are cases in which just scorn has 
always the mastery over just anger.” 

“ Then know,” said Lindesay, “ that upon the 
field of Carberry-hill, when that false and infamous 
traitor and murderer, James, sometime Earl of 
Bothwell, and nicknamed Duke of Orkney, offered 
to do personal battle with any of the associated 
nobles who came to drag him to justice, I accepted 
his challenge, and was by the noble Earl of Mor- 
ton gifted with his good sword that I might there- 
with fight it out — Ah ! so help me Heaven, had his 
presumption been one grain more, or his cowardice 
one grain less, I should have done such work with 
this good steel on his traitorous corpse, that the 
hounds and carrion-crows should have found their 
morsels daintily carved to their use ! ” 

The Queen’s courage wellnigh gave way at the 


THE ABBOT. 


*9 


mention of Bothwell’s name — a name connected 
with such a train of guilt, shame, and disaster. But 
the prolonged boast of Lindesay gave her time to 
rally herself, and to answer with an appearance of 
cold contempt — “It is easy to slay an enemy who 
enters not the lists.' But had Mary Stewart in- 
herited her father’s sword as well as his sceptre, the 
boldest of her rebels should not upon that day have 
complained that they had no one to cope withal. 
Your lordship will forgive me if I abridge this con- 
ference. A brief description of a bloody fight is 
long enough to satisfy a lady’s curiosity ; and unless 
my Lord of Lindesay has something more important 
to tell us than of the deeds which old Bell-the-Cat 
achieved, and how he would himself have emulated 
them, had time and tide permitted, we will retire 
to our private apartment, and you, Fleming, shall 
finish reading to us yonder little treatise Des Bo- 
domontades EspagnollesJ* 

“Tarry, madam,” said Lindesay, his complexion 
reddening in his turn ; “ I know your quick wit 
too well of old to have sought an interview that 
you might sharpen its edge at the expense of my 
honour. Lord Kuthven and myself, with Sir Eobert 
Melville as a concurrent, come to your Grace on 
the part of the Secret Council, to tender to you 
what 'much concerns the safety of your own life and 
the welfare of the State.” 

“ The Secret Council ? ” said the Queen ; “ by 
what powers can it subsist or act, while I, from 
whom it holds its character, am here detained un- 
der unjust restraint ? But it matters not — what 
concerns the welfare of Scotland shall be acceptable 
to Mary Stewart, come from whatever quarter it 
will — and for what concerns her own life, she has 


20 


THE ABBOT. 


lived long enough to be weary of it, even at the 
age of twenty-five. — Where is your colleague, my 
lord — why tarries he ? ” 

'‘He comes, madam,” said Melville, and Lord 
Euthven entered at the instant, holding in his hand 
a packet. As the Queen returned his salutation, she 
became deadly pale, but instantly recovered herself 
by dint of strong and sudden resolution, just as the 
noble, whose appearance seemed to excite such emo- 
tions in her bosom, entered the apartment in com- 
pany with George Douglas, the youngest son of 
the Knight of Lochleven, who, during the absence 
of his father and brethren, acted as Seneschal of 
the Castle, under the direction of the elder Lady 
Lochleven, his father’s mother. 


V ' -K-'P' 

. r ilt.v 






CHAPTEK 11. 


I give this heavy weight from off my head, 

And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand ; 

With mine own tears I wash away my balm, 

With my own hand I give away my crown, 

With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, 

With mine own breath release all duteous oaths. 

Richard II. 

Lord Euthven (a) ^ had the look and bearing which 
became a soldier and a statesman, and the martial 
cast of his form and features procured him the pop- 
ular epithet of Greysteil, by which he was distin- 
guished by his intimates, after the hero of a metrical 
romance then generally known. His dress, which 
was a buff-coat embroidered, had a half-military 
character, but exhibited nothing of the sordid neg- 
ligence which distinguished that of Lindesay. But 
the son of an ill-fated sire, and the father of a yet 
more unfortunate family, bore in his look that cast 
of inauspicious melancholy, by which the physiog- 
nomists of that time pretended to distinguish those 
who were predestined to a violent and unhappy 
death. 

The terror which the presence of this nobleman 
impressed on the Queen’s mind, arose from the ac- 
tive share he had borne in the slaughter of David 
Kizzio ; his father having presided at the perpetra- 

1 See Editor’s Notes at the end of the Volume. Wherever a 
similar reference occurs, the reader will understand that the same 
direction applies. 


22 


THE ABBOT. 


tion of that abominable crime, although so weak 
from long and wasting illness, that he could not en- 
dure the weight of his armour, having arisen from 
a sick-bed to commit a murder in the presence of 
his Sovereign. On that occasion his son also had 
attended and taken an active part. It was little to 
be wondered at, that the Queen, considering her con- 
dition when such a deed of horror was acted in her 
presence, should retain an instinctive terror for the 
principal actors in the murder. She returned, how- 
ever, with grace the salutation of Lord Kuthven, and 
extended her hand to George Douglas, who kneeled, 
itnd kissed it with respect ; the first mark of a sub- 
ject’s homage which Eoland Graeme had seen any of 
them render to the captive Sovereign. She returned 
his greeting in silence, and there was a brief pause, 
during which the steward of the castle, a man of a 
sad brow and a severe eye, placed, under George 
Douglas’s directions, a table and writing materials ; 
and the page, obedient to his mistress’s dumb sig- 
nal, advanced a large chair to the side on which the 
Queen stood, the table thus forming a sort of bar 
which divided the Queen and her personal followers 
trom her unwelcome visitors. The steward then 
withdrew after a low reverence. When he had 
closed the door behind him, the Queen broke silence 
— “With your favour, my lords, I will sit- — my 
walks are not indeed extensive enough at present 
to fatigue me greatly, yet I find repose . something 
more necessary than usual.” 

She sat down accordingly, and, shading her cheek 
with her beautiful hand, looked keenly and impres- 
sively at each of the nobles in turn. Mary Fleming 
applied her kerchief to her eyes, and Catherine Sey- 
ton and Eoland Grseme exchanged a glance, which 


THE ABBOT. 


23 


showed that hoth were too deeply engrossed with 
sentiments of interest and commiseration for their 
royal mistress, to think of any thing which regarded 
themselves. 

“ I wait the purpose of your mission, my lords,” 
said the Queen, after she had been seated for about 
a minute without a word being spoken, — "I wait 
your message from those you call the Secret Coun- 
cil. — I trust it is a petition of pardon, and a desire 
that I will resume my rightful throne, without using 
with due severity my right of punishing those who 
have dispossessed me of it ? ” 

“Madam,” replied Euthven, “it is painful for 
us to speak harsh truths to a Princess who has long 
ruled us. But we come to offer, not to implore, 
pardon. In a word, madam, we have to propose 
to you on the part of the Secret Council, that you 
sign these deeds, which will contribute greatly to 
the pacification of the State, the advancement of 
God’s word, and the welfare of your own future 
life.” 

“Am I expected to take these fair words on 
trust, my lord ? or may I hear the contents of these 
reconciling papers, ere I am asked to sign them ? ” 

“ Unquestionably, madam ; it is our purpose and 
wish you should read what you are required to 
sign,” replied Euthven. 

“ Eequired ? ” replied the Queen, with some em- 
phasis; “but the phrase suits well the matter — 
read, my lord.” 

The Lord Euthven proceeded to read a formal 
instrument, running in the Queen’s name, apd set- 
ting forth that she had been called, at an early age, 
to the administration of the crown and realm of 
Scotland, and had toiled diligently therein, until she 


24 


THE ABBOT. 


was in body and spirit so wearied out and disgusted, 
that she was unable any longer to endure the travail 
and pain of State affairs ; and that since God had 
blessed her with a fair and hopeful son, she was 
desirous to ensure to him, even while she yet lived, 
his succession to the crown, which was his by right 
of hereditary descent. “Wherefore,” the instru- 
ment proceeded, “ we, of the motherly affection we 
bear to our said son, have renounced and demitted, 
and by these our letters of free good-will, renounce 
and demit, the Crown, government, and guiding of 
the realm of Scotland, in favour of our said son, 
that he may succeed to us as native Prince thereof, 
as much as if we had been removed by disease, and 
not by our own proper act. And that this demis- 
sion of our royal authority may have the more full 
and solemn effect, and none pretend ignorance, we 
give, grant, and commit, full and free and plain 
power to our trusty cousins. Lord Lindesay of the 
Byres, and William Lord Kuthven, to appear in our 
name before as many of the nobility, clergy, and bur- 
gesses, as may be assembled at Stirling, and there, in 
our name and behalf, publicly, and in their presence, 
to renounce the Crown, guidance, and government 
of this our kingdom of Scotland.” 

The Queen here broke in with an air of extreme 
surprise. “ How is this, my lords ? ” she said ; 
“ Are my ears turned rebels, that they deceive me 
with sounds so extraordinary ? — And yet it is no 
wonder that, having conversed so long with rebel- 
lion, they should now force its language upon my 
understanding. Say I am mistaken, my lords — 
say, for the honour of yourselves and the Scottish 
nobility, that my right trusty cousins of Lindesay 
and Ruthven, two barons of warlike fame and ancient 


THE ABBOT. 


* 3 ^ 

line, have not sought the prison-house of their kind 
mistress for such a purpose as these words seem to 
imply. Say, for the sake of honour and loyalty, that 
my ears have deceived me.” 

“ No, madam,” said Euthven gravely, " your ears 
do not deceive you — they deceived you when they 
were closed against the preachers of the evangele, 
and the honest advice of your faithful subjects ; 
and when they were ever open to flattery of pick- 
thanks and traitors, foreign cuhiculars and domestic 
minions. The land may no longer brook the rule 
of one who cannot rule herself ; wherefore I pray 
you to comply with the last remaining wish of your 
subjects and counsellors, and spare yourself and us 
the further agitation of matters so painful.” 

“ And is this all my loving subjects require of 
me, my lord ? ” said Mary, in a tone of bitter irony. 
** Do they really stint themselves to the easy boon 
that I should yield up the crown, which is mine 
by birthright, to an infant which is scarcely more 
than a year old — fling down my sceptre, and take 
up a distaff ? — 0 no ! it is too little for them to ask 
— That other roll of parchment contains something 
harder to be complied with, and which may more 
highly tax my readiness to comply with the peti- 
tions of my lieges.” 

“ This parchment,” answered Euthven, in the 
same tone of inflexible gravity, and unfolding the 
instrument as he spoke, “ is one by which your 
Grace constitutes your nearest in blood, and the 
most honourable and trustworthy of your subjects, 
James, Earl of Murray, Eegent of the kingdom 
during the minority of the young King. He al- 
ready holds the appointment from the Secret 
Council.” 


26 


THE ABBOT. 


The Queen gave a sort of shriek, and clapping 
her hands together, exclaimed, “ Comes the arrow 
out of his quiver ? — out of my brother’s bow ? — 
Alas ! I looked for his return from France as my 
sole, at least my readiest, chance of deliverance. — 
And yet, when I heard that he had assumed the 
government, I guessed he would shame to wield it 
in my name.” 

“I must pray your answer, madam,” said Lord 
Kuthven, “ to the demand of the Council.” 

“The demand of the Council!” said the Queen; 
** say rather the demand of a set of robbers, impa- 
tient to divide the spoil they have seized. To such 
a demand, and sent by the mouth of a traitor, 
whose scalp, but for my womanish mercy, should 
lolig since have stood on the city gates, Mary of 
Scotland has no answer.” 

“ I trust, madam,” said Lord Euthven, “ my 
being unacceptable to your presence will not add to 
your obduracy of resolution. It may become you to 
remember that the death of the minion, Kizzio, cost 
the house of Euthven its head and leader. My 
father, more worthy than a whole province of such 
vile sycophants, died in exile, and broken-hearted.” 

The Queen clasped her hands on her face, and 
resting her arms on the table, stooped down her 
head and wept so bitterly, that the tears were seen 
to find their way in streams between the white and 
slender fingers with which she endeavoured to con- 
ceal them. 

“My lords,” said Sir Eobert Melville, “this is 
too much rigour. Under your lordships* favour, we 
came hither, not to revive old griefs, ‘but to find the 
mode of avoiding new ones.” 

“Sir Eobert Melville,” said Euthven, “we best 


THE ABBOT. 


27 


know for what purpose we were delegated hither, 
and wherefore you were somewhat unnecessarily 
sent to attend us.” 

“ Nay, by my hand,” said Lord Lindesay, “ I 
know not why we were cumbered with the good 
knight, unless he comes in place of the lump of 
sugar which pothicars put into their wholesome but 
bitter medicaments, to please a froward child — a 
needless labour, methinks, where men have the 
means to make them swallow the physic otherwise.” 

“Nay, my lords,” said Melville, “ye best know 
your own secret instructions. I conceive I shall 
best obey mine in striving to mediate between her 
Grace and you.” 

“ Be silent. Sir Eobert Melville,” said the Queen, 
arising, and her face still glowing with agitation as 
she spoke. “ My kerchief, Fleming — I shame that 
traitors should have power to move me thus. — Tell 
hie, proud lords,” she added, wiping away the tears 
as she spoke, “ by what earthly warrant can liege 
subjects pretend to challenge the rights of an 
anointed Sovereign — to throw off the allegiance 
they have vowed, and to take away the crown from 
the head on which Divine warrant had placed 
it?” 

“Madam,” said Euthven, “I will deal plainly 
with you. Your reign, from the dismal field of 
Pinkie-cleuch, when you were a babe in the cradle, 
till now that ye stand a grown dame before us, hath 
been such a tragedy of losses, disasters, civil dissen- 
sions and foreign wars, that the like is not to be 
foufid in our chronicles. The French and English 
have, with one consent, made Scotland the battle- 
field on which to fight out their own ancient quarrel. 
— For ourselves, every man’s hand hath been against 


28 


THE ABBOT. 


his brother, nor hath a year passed over without 
rebellion and slaughter, exile of nobles, and oppress- 
ing of the commons. We may endure it no longer ; 
and, therefore, as a prince, to whom God hath re- 
fused the gift of hearkening to wise counsel, and on 
whose dealings and projects no blessing hath ever 
descended, we pray you to give way to other rule 
and governance of the land, that a remnant may yet 
be saved to this distracted realm.” 

“ My lord,” said Mary, “ it seems to me that you 
fling on my unhappy and devoted head those evils, 
which, with far more justice, I may impute to your 
own turbulent, wild, and untameable dispositions — 
the frantic violence with which you, the Magnates 
of Scotland, enter into feuds against each other, 
sticking at no cruelty to gratify your wrath, taking 
deep revenge for the slightest offences, and setting at 
defiance those wise laws which your ancestors made 
for stanching of such cruelty, rebelling against the* 
lawful authority, and bearing yourselves as if there 
were no king in the land ; or rather as if each were 
king in his own premises. And now you throw the 
blame on me — on me, whose life has been embit- 
tered — whose sleep has been broken — whose happi- 
ness has been wrecked, by your dissensions. Have I 
not myself been obliged to traverse wilds and moun- 
tains, at the head of a few faithful followers, to 
maintain peace and to put down oppression ? Have 
I not worn harness on my person, and carried pis- 
tols at my saddle ; fain to lay aside the softness of 
a woman, and the dignity of a Queen, that I might 
show an example to my followers ? ” 

“We grant, madam,” said Lindesay, “that the 
affrays occasioned by your misgovernment, may 
sometimes have startled you in the midst of a 


THE ABBOT. 


29 


masque or galliard ; or it may be that such may 
have interrupted the idolatry of the mass, or the 
Jesuitical counsels of some French ambassador. But 
the longest and severest journey which your Grace 
has taken in my memory, was from Hawick to Her- 
mitage Castle ; and whether it was for the weal of 
the State, or for your own honour, rests with your 
Grace’s conscience.” 

The Queen turned to him with inexpressible 
sweetness of tone and manner, and that engaging 
look which Heaven had assigned her, as if to show 
that the choicest arts to win men’s affections may 
be given in vain. “ Lindesay,” she said, “ you spoke 
not to me in this stern tone, and with such scurril 
taunt, yon fair summer evening, when you and I 
shot at the butts against the Earl of Mar and Mary 
Livingstone, and won of them the evening’s colla- 
tion, in the privy garden of Saint Andrews, (b) The 
Master of Lindesay was then my friend, and vowed 
to be my soldier. How I have offended the Lord of 
Lindesay, I know not, unless honours have changed 
manners.” 

Hardhearted as he was, Lindesay seemed struck 
with this unexpected appeal, but almost instantly 
replied, “ Madam, it is well known that your Grace 
could in those days make fools of whomever ap- 
proached you. I pretend not to have been wiser 
than others. But gayer men and better courtiers 
soon jostled aside my rude homage, and I think 
your Grace cannot but remember times, when my 
awkward attempts to take the manners that pleased 
you, were the sport of the court-popinjays, the Marys 
and the Frenchwomen.” 

My lord, I grieve if I have offended you through 
idle gaiety,” said the Queen ; “ and can but say it 


30 


THE ABBOT. 


was most unwittingly done. You are fully re- 
venged ; for through gaiety,” she said with a sigh, 
will I never offend any one more.” 

“ Our time is wasting, madam,” said Lord Kuth- 
ven ; “ I must pray your decision on this weighty 
matter which I have submitted to you.” 

“What, my lord!” said the Queen; “upon the 
instant, and without a moment’s time to deliberate ? 

— Can the Council, as they term themselves, expect 
this of me ? ” 

“Madam,” replied Euthven, “the Council hold 
the opinion, that since the fatal term which passed 
betwixt the night of King Henry’s murder and the 
day of Carberry-hill, your Grace should have held 
you prepared for the measure now proposed, as the 
easiest escape from your numerous dangers and 
difficulties.” 

“ Great God ! ” exclaimed the Queen ; “ and is it 
as a boon that you propose to me, what every Chris- 
tian king ought to regard as a loss of honour equal 
to the loss of life ! — You take from me my crown, 
my power, my subjects, my wealth, my state. What, 
in the name of every saint, can you offer, or do you 
offer, in requital of my compliance ? ” 

“We give you pardon,” answered Euthven, sternly 

— “ we give you space and means to spend your re- 
maining life in penitence and seclusion — we give 
you time to make your peace with Heaven, and to 
receive the pure Gospel, which you have ever re- 
jected and persecuted.” 

The Queen turned pale at the menace which this 
speech, as well as the rough and inflexible tones of 
the speaker, seemed distinctly to infer — “ And if I 
do not comply with your request so fiercely urged, 
my lord, what then follows ? ” 


THE ABBOT. 


31 


She said this in a voice in which female and nat- 
ural fear was contending with the feelings of insulted 
dignity. — There was a pause, as if no one cared to 
return to the question a distinct answer. At length 
Kuthven spoke : “ There is little need to tell to your 
Grace, who are well read both in the laws and in 
the chronicles of the realm, that murder and adul- 
tery are crimes for which ere now queens themselves 
have suffered death.” 

“ And where, my lord, or how, found you an ac- 
cusation so horrible, against her who stands before 
you ? ” said Queen Mary. “ The foul and odious 
calumnies which have poisoned the general mind of 
Scotland, and have placed me a helpless prisoner in 
your hands, are surely no proof of guilt V* 

“We need look for no further proof,” replied the 
stern Lord Euthven, “ than the shameless marriage 
betwixt the widow of the murdered and the leader 
of the band of murderers ! — They that joined hands 
in the fated month of May, (c) had already united 
hearts and counsel in the deed which preceded that 
marriage but a few brief weeks.” 

“ My lord, my lord ! ” said the Queen, eagerly, 
“remember well there were more consents than 
mine to that fatal union, that most unhappy act of 
a most unhappy life. The evil steps adopted by 
sovereigns are often the suggestion of bad counsel- 
lors; but these counsellors are worse than fiends 
who tempt and betray, if they themselves are the 
first to call their unfortunate princes to answer for 
the consequences of their own advice. — Heard ye 
never of a bond by the nobles, (d) my lords, recom- 
mending that ill-fated union to the ill-fated Mary ? 
Methinks, were it carefully examined, we should see 
that the names of Morton, and of Lindesay, and of 


52 


THE ABBOT. 


Kuthven, may be found in that bond, which pressed 
me to marry that unhappy man. — Ah ! stout and 
loyal Lord Herries, who never knew guile or dis- 
honour, you bent your noble knee to me in vain, to 
warn me of my danger, and wert yet the first to 
draw thy good sword in my cause when I suffered 
for neglecting thy counsel ! Faithful knight and 
true noble, what a difference betwixt thee and those 
counsellors of evil, who now threaten my life for 
having fallen into the snares they spread for 
me!” 

“ Madam,” said Kuthven, “ we know that you 
are an orator ; and perhaps for that reason the Coun- 
cil has sent hither men, whose converse hath been 
more with the wars, than with the language of the 
schools or the cabals of state. We but desire to 
know if, on assurance of life and honour, ye will 
demit the rule of this kingdom of Scotland ? ” 

‘‘And what warrant have I,” said the Queen, 
“ that ye will keep treaty with me, if I should bar- 
ter my kingly estate for seclusion, and leave to 
weep in secret ? ” 

“ Our honour and our word, madam,” answered 
Kuthven. 

“They are too slight and unsolid pledges, my 
lord,” said the Queen ; “ add at least a handful of 
thistle-down to give them weight in the balance.” 

“Away, Kuthven,” said Lindesay; ‘she was 
ever deaf to counsel, save of slaves and sycophants ; 
let her remain by her refusal, and abide by it ! ” 

“ Stay, my lord,” said Sir Kobert Melville, “ or 
rather permit me to have but a few minutes' private 
audience with her Grace. If my presence with you 
could avail aught, it must be as a mediator — do 
not, I conjure you, leave the castle, or break off the 


THE ABBOT. 


33 


conference, until I bring you word how her Grace 
shall finally stand disposed.” 

“We will remain in the hall,” said Lindesay, 
“ for half an hour’s space ; but in despising our 
words and our pledge of honour, she has touched 
the honour of my name — let her look herself to the 
course she has to pursue. If the half hour should 
pass away without her determining to comply with 
the demands of the nation, her career will be brief 
enough.” 

With little ceremony the two nobles left the 
apartment, traversed the vestibule, and descended 
the winding stairs, the clash of Lindesay’s huge 
sword being heard as it rang against each step in 
his descent. George Douglas followed them, after 
exchanging with Melville a gesture of surprise and 
sympathy. 

As soon as they were gone, the Queen, giving 
way to grief, fear, and agitation, threw herself into 
the seat, wrung her hands, and seemed to abandon 
herself to despair. Her female attendants, weep- 
ing themselves, endeavoured yet to pray her to be 
composed, and Sir Kobert Melville, kneeling at her 
feet, made the same entreaty. After giving way to 
a passionate burst of sorrow, she at length said to 
Melville, “ Kneel not to me, Melville — mock me 
not with the homage of the person, when the heart 
is far away — Why stay you behind with the de- 
posed, the condemned ? her who has but few hours 
perchance to live ? You have been favoured as well 
as the rest ; why do you continue the empty show of 
gratitude and thankfulness any longer than they ? ” 

“ Madam,” said Sir Eobert Melville, “ so help me 
Heaven at my need, my heart is as true to you 
as when you were in your highest place.” 

VOL. II. — 3 


u 


THE ABBOT. 


“ True to me ! true to me ! ” repeated the Queen, 
with some scorn ; tush, Melville, what signifies 
the truth which walks hand in hand with my ene- 
mies’ falsehood ? — thy hand and thy sword have 
never been so well acquainted that I can trust thee 
in aught where manhood is required — 0, Sey ton, 
for thy bold father, who is both wise, true, and 
valiant 1 ” 

Koland Graeme could withstand no longer his 
earnest desire to offer his services to a princess so 
distressed and so beautiful. “ If one sword,” he said, 
“ madam, can do any thing to back the wisdom of 
this grave counsellor, or to defend your rightful 
cause, here is my weapon, and here is my hand ready 
to draw and use it.” And raising his sword with 
one hand, he laid the other upon the hilt. 

As he thus held up the weapon, Catherine Sey- 
ton exclaimed, “Methinks I see a token from my 
father, madam ; ” and immediately crossing the 
apartment, she took Eoland Graeme by the skirt 
of the cloak, and asked him earnestly whence he 
had that sword. 

The page answered with surprise, " Methinks 
this is no presence in which to jest — Surely, dam- 
sel, you yourself best know whence and how I 
obtained the weapon.” 

“Is this a time for folly ? ” said Catherine Sey ton ; 
“ unsheathe the sword instantly ! ” 

“ If the Queen commands me,” said the youth, 
looking towards his royal mistress. 

“ For shame, maiden ! ” said the Queen ; “ wouldst 
thou instigate the poor boy to enter into useless strife 
with the two most approved soldiers in Scotland ? ” 

“ In your Grace’s cause,” replied the page, “ I will 
venture my life upon them!” And as he spoke, 


THE ABBOT. 


35 


he drew his weapon partly from the sheath, and a 
piece of parchment, rolled around the blade, fell out 
and dropped on the floor. Catherine Seyton caught 
it up with eager haste. 

“ It is my father’s handwriting,” she said, “ and 
doubtless conveys his best duteous advice to your 
Majesty; I knew that it was prepared to be sent in 
this weapon, but I expected another messenger.” 

“ By my faith, fair one,” thought Eoland, “ and 
if you knew not that I had such a secret missive 
about me, I was yet more ignorant.” 

The Queen cast her eye upon the scroll, and 
remained a few minutes wrapped in deep thought. 
“Sir Eobert Melville,” she at length said, “this 
scroll advises me to submit myself to necessity, and 
to subscribe the deeds these hard men have brought 
with them, as one who gives way to the natural 
fear inspired by the threats of rebels and murderers. 
You, Sir Eobert, are a wise man, and Seyton is 
both sagacious and brave. Neither, I think, would 
mislead me in this matter.” 

“ Madam,” said Melville, “ if I have not the 
strength of body of the Lord Herries or Seyton, I 
will yield to neither in zeal for your Majesty’s ser- 
vice. I cannot fight for you like these lords, but 
neither of them is more willing to die for your 
service.” 

“ I believe it, my old and faithful counsellor, ” 
said the Queen, " and believe me, Melville, I did 
thee but a moment’s injustice. Eead what my 
Lord Seyton hath written to us, and give us thy 
best counsel. ” 

He glanced over the parchment, and instantly 
replied, — " 0 ! my dear and royal mistress, only 
treason itself could give you other advice than 


THE ABBOT 


36 

Lord Seyton has here expressed. He, Herries, 
Huntly, the English ambassador Throgmorton, and 
others, your friends, are all alike of opinion, that, 
whatever deeds or instruments you execute within 
these walls, must lose all force and effect, as ex- 
torted from your Grace by duresse, by sufferance of 
present evil, and fear of men, and harm to ensue 
on your refusal. Yield, therefore, to the tide, and 
be assured, that in subscribing what parchments 
they present to you, you bind yourself to nothing, 
since your act of signature wants that which alone 
can make it valid, the free will of the grantor. ” 

“Ay, so says my Lord Seyton,” replied Mary; 
“ yet methinks, for the daughter of so long a line 
of sovereigns to resign her birthright, because 
rebels press upon her with threats, argues little of 
royalty, and will read ill for the fame of Mary in 
future chronicles. Tush ! Sir Eobert Melville, the 
traitors may use black threats and bold words, but 
they will not dare to put their hands forth on our 
person ? ” 

“ Alas ! madam, they have already dared so far, 
and incurred such peril by the lengths which they 
have gone, that they are but one step from the 
worst and uttermost. ” 

“Surely,” said the Queen, her fears again pre- 
dominating, “ Scottish nobles would not lend 
themselves to assassinate a helpless woman ? ” 

“ Bethink you, madam, ” he replied, “ what hor- 
rid spectacles have been seen in our day; and 
what act is so dark, that some Scottish hand has 
not been found to dare^ it? Lord Lindesay, be- 
sides his natural sullenness and hardness of tem- 
per, is the near kinsman of Henry Darnley, and 
Euthven has his own deep and dangerous plans. 


THE ABBOT. 


37 


The Council, besides, speak of proofs by writ and 
word, of a casket with letters — of I know not 
what. ” 

" Ah ! good Melville, ” answered the Queen, 
“ were I as sure of the evenhanded integrity of my 

judges, as of my own innocence — and yet ” 

“ Oh ! pause, madam, ” said Melville ; “ even in- 
nocence must sometimes for a season stoop to inju- 
rious blame. Besides, you are here ” 

He looked round, and paused. 

“ Speak out, Melville, ” said the Queen, “ never 
one approached my person who wished to work me 
evil ; and even this poor page, whom I have to-day 
seen for the first time in my life, I can trust safely 
with your communication. ” 

" i^ay, madam, ” answered Melville, “ in such 
emergence, and he being the bearer of Lord Seyton’s 
message, I will venture to say before him and these 
fair ladies, whose truth and fidelity I dispute not 
— I say I will venture to say, that there are other 
modes besides that of open trial, by which deposed 
sovereigns often die ; and that, as Machiavel saith, 
there is but one step betwixt a king’s prison and 
his grave. ” 

" Oh ! were it but swift and easy for the body, ” 
said the unfortunate Princess, " were it but a safe 
and happy change for the soul, the woman lives 
not that would take the step so soon as I ! — But, 
alas! Melville, when we think of death, a thou- 
sand sins, which we have trod as worms beneath 
our feet, rise up against us as flaming serpents. 
Most injuriously do they accuse me of aiding 
Damley’s death; yet, blessed Lady ! I afforded too 
open occasion for the suspicion — I espoused 
Both well ” 


38 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Think not of that now, madam, ” said Melville, 
" think rather of the immediate mode of saving 
yourself and son. Comply with the present un- 
reasonable demands, and trust that better times 
will shortly arrive. ” 

" Madam, ” said Eoland Graeme, " if it pleases 
you that I should do so, I will presently swim 
through the lake, if they refuse me other con- 
veyance to the shore; I will go to the courts 
successively of England, France, and Spain, and 
will show you have subscribed these vile instru- 
ments from no stronger impulse than the fear of 
death, and I will do battle against them that say 
otherwise. ” 

The Queen turned her round, and with one of 
those sweet smiles which, during the era of 
life’s romance, overpay every risk, held her hand 
towards Eoland, but without speaking a word. 
He kneeled reverently, and kissed it, and Melville 
again resumed his plea. 

“ Madam, ” he said, “ time presses, and you must 
not let those boats, which I see they are even now 
preparing, put forth on the lake. Here are enough 
of witnesses — your ladies — this bold youth — 
myself, when it can serve your cause effectually, 
for I would not hastily stand committed in this 
matter — but even without me here is evidence 
enough to show, that you have yielded to the de- 
mands of the Council through force and fear, but 
from no sincere and unconstrained assent. Their 
boats are already manned for their return — oh ! 
permit your old servant to recall them ! ” 

“ Melville, ” said the Queen, “ thou art an an- 
cient courtier — when didst thou ever know a 
Sovereign Prince recall to his presence subjects. 


THE ABBOT. 


39 


who had parted from him on such terms as those 
on which these envoys of the Council left us, and 
who yet were recalled without submission or apol- 
ogy • — cost me both life and crown, I will 

not again command them to my presence. ” 

" Alas ! madam, that empty form should make 
a barrier! If I rightly understand, you are not 
unwilling to listen to real and advantageous coun- 
sel — but your scruple is saved — I hear them 
returning to ask your final resolution. — 0 ! take 
the advice of the noble Seyton, and you may 
once more command those who now usurp a 
triumph ovdr you. But hush ! I hear them in the 
vestibule. ” 

As he concluded speaking, George Douglas 
opened the door of the apartment, and marshalled 
in the two noble envoys. 

“We come, madam,” said the Lord Euthven, 
“ to request your answer to the proposal of the 
Council. ” 

“ Your final answer, ” said Lord Lindesay ; “ for 
with a refusal you must couple the certainty that 
you have precipitated your fate, and renounced the 
last opportunity of making peace with God, and 
ensuring your longer abode in the world. ” 

“ My lords, ” said Mary, with inexpressible grace 
and dignity, “ the evils we cannot resist we must 
submit to — I will subscribe these parchments with 
such liberty of choice as my condition permits 
me. Were I on yonder shore, with a fleet jennet 
and ten good and loyal knights around me, I would 
subscribe my sentence of eternal condemnation as 
soon as the resignation of my throne. But here, 
in the castle of Lochleven, with deep water around 
me (e) — and you, my lords, beside me, — I have no 


40 


THE ABBOT. 


freedom of choice. — Give me the pen, Melville, 
and bear witness to what I do, and why I do it. ” 

“ It is our hope your ’Grace will not suppose • 
yourself compelled, by any apprehensions from us, ” 
said the Lord Euthven, “ to execute what must be 
your own voluntary deed. ” 

The Queen had already stooped towards the 
table, and placed the parchment before her, with 
the pen between her fingers, ready for the import- 
ant act of signature. But when Lord Euthven had 
done speaking, she looked up, stopped short, and 
threw down the pen. “ If, ” she said, " I am ex- 
pected to declare I give away my crown of free 
will, or otherwise than because I am compelled to 
renounce it by the threat of worse evils to myself 
and my subjects, I will not put my name to such 
an untruth — not to gain full possession of Eng- 
land, France, and Scotland ! — all once my own, in 
possession, or by right. ” 

“ Beware, madam, ” said Lindesay, and, snatching 
hold of the Queen’s arm, with his own gauntleted 
hand, he pressed it, in the rudeness of his passion, 
more closely, perhaps, than he was himself aware 
of, — “ beware how you contend with thgse who 
are the stronger, and have the mastery of your 
fate!” 

He held his grasp on her arm, bending his eyes 
on her with a stern and intimidating look, till 
both Euthven and Melville cried shame ! and 
Douglas, who had hitherto remained in a state of 
apparent apathy, had made a stride from the door, 
as if to interfere. The rude Baron then quitted 
his hold, disguising the confusion which he really 
felt at having indulged his passion to such extent, 
under a sullen and contemptuous smile. 


THE ABBOT. 


4 * 


The Queen immediately began, with an expres- 
sion of pain, to bare the arm which he had grasped, 
by drawing up the sleeve of her gown, and it ap- 
peared that his gripe had left the purple marks of 
his iron fingers upon her flesh — " My lord, ” she 
said, “ as a knight and gentleman, you might have 
spared my frail arm so severe a proof that you have 
the greater strength on your side, and are resolved 
to use it — But I thank you for it — it is the most 
decisive token of the terms on which this day’s 
business is to rest. — I draw you to witness, both 
lords and ladies, ” she said, showing the marks of 
the grasp on her arm, “ that I subscribe these in- 
struments in obedience to the sign manual of my 
Lord of Lindesay, which you may see imprinted on 
mine arm. ” ^ 

Lindesay would have spoken, but was restrained 
by his colleague Euthven, who said to him, “ Peace, 
my lord. Let the Lady Mary of Scotland ascribe 
her signature to what she will, it is our business 
to procure it, and carry it to the Council. Should 
there be debate hereafter on the manner in which 
it was adhibited, there will be time enough for 
it. ” 

Lindesay was silent accordingly, only muttering 
within his beard, " I meant not to hurt her ; but I 
think women’s flesh be as tender as new-fallen 
snow. ” 

The Queen meanwhile subscribed the rolls of 
parchment with a hasty indifference, as if they had 
been matters of slight consequence, or of mere for- 
mality. When she had performed this painful 
task, she arose, and, having curtsied to the lords, 
was about to withdraw to her chamber. Euthven 

1 Note I. — The Resignation of Queen Marj. 


42 


THE ABBOT. 


and Sir Kobert Melville made, the first a formal 
reverence, the second an obeisance, in which his 
desire to acknowledge his sympathy was obviously 
checked by the fear of appearing in the eyes of 
his colleagues too partial to his former mistress. 
But Lindesay stood motionless, even when they 
were preparing to withdraw. At length, as if 
moved by a sudden impulse, he walked round the 
table which had hitherto been betwixt them and 
the Queen, kneeled on one knee, took her hand, 
kissed it, let it fall, and arose — " Lady, ” he said, 
“ thou art a noble creature, even though thou hast 
abused God’s choicest gifts. I pay that devotion 
to thy manliness of spirit, which I would not have 
paid to the power thou hast long undeservedly 
wielded — I kneel to Mary Stewart, not to the 
Queen. ” 

" The Queen and Mary Stewart pity thee alike, 
Lindesay, ” said Mary — " alike they pity, and they 
forgive thee. An honoured soldier hadst thou been 
by a king’s side — leagued with rebels, what art 
thou but a good blade in the hands of a ruffian ? — 
Farewell, my Lord Kuthven, the smoother but the 
deeper traitor. — Farewell, Melville — Mayst thou 
find masters that can understand state policy better, 
and have the means to reward it more richly, than 
Mary Stewart ! — Farewell, George of Douglas — 
make your respected grand-dame comprehend that 
we would be alone for the remainder of the day — 
God wot, we have need to collect our thoughts. ” 

All bowed and withdrew ; but scarce had they 
entered the vestibule, ere Euthven and Lindesay 
were at variance, “ Chide not with me, Ruthven, ” 
Lindesay was heard to say in answer to something 
more indistinctly urged by his colleague — “ Chide 


THE ABBOT. 


43 


not with me, for I will not brook it ! You put the 
hangman’s office on me in this matter, and even 
the very hangman hath leave to ask some pardon 
of those on whom he does his office. I would I 
had as deep cause to be this lady’s friend as I have 
to be her enemy — thou shouldst see if I spared 
limb and life in her quarrel. ” 

" Thou art a sweet minion, ” said Euthven, " to 
fight a lady’s quarrel, and all for a brent brow and 
a tear in the eye 1 Such toys have been out of thy 
thoughts this many a year. ” 

“ Do me right, Euthven, ” said Lindesay. " You 
are like a polished corslet of steel ; it shines more 
gaudily, but it is not a whit softer — nay, it is five 
times harder than a Glasgow breastplate of ham- 
mered iron. Enough. We know each other. ” 
They descended the stairs, were heard to sum- 
mon their boats, and the Queen signed to Eoland 
Graeme to retire to the vestibule, and leave her 
with her female attendants. 


CHAPTER III 


Give me a morsel on the greensward rather, 

Coarse as you will the cooking — Let the fresh spring 
Bubble beside my napkin — and the free birds 
Twittering and chirping, hop from bough to bough, 

To claim the crumbs I leave for perquisites — 

Your prison-feasts I like not. 

The Woodsman, a Drama. 

A RECESS in the vestibule was enlightened by a 
small window, at which Koland Graeme stationed 
himself to mark the departure of the lords. He 
could see their followers mustering on horseback 
under their respective banners — the western sun 
glancing on their corslets and steel caps as they 
moved to and fro, mounted or dismounted, at in- 
tervals. On the narrow space betwixt the castle 
and the water, the Lords Kuthven and Lindesay 
were already moving slowly to their boats, accom- 
panied by the Lady of Lochleven, her grandson, 
and their principal attendants. They took a cere- 
monious leave of each other, as Koland could dis- 
cern by their gestures, and the boats put off from 
their landing-place ; the boatmen stretched to 
their oars, and they speedily diminished upon the 
eye of the idle gazer, who had no better employ- 
ment than to watch their motions. Such seemed 
also the occupation of the Lady Lochleven and 
George Douglas, who, returning from the landing- 
place, looked frequently back to the boats, and at 
length stopped, as if to observe their progress, un- 
der the window at which Koland Graeme was sta- 


THE ABBOT. 


45 


tioued. — As they gazed on the lake, he could hear 
the lady distinctly say, “ And she has bent her 
mind to save her life at the expense of her 
kingdom ? ” 

“ Her lifOy madam ! ” replied her son; " I know 
not who would dare to attempt it in the castle of 
my father. Had I dreamt that it was with such 
purpose that Lindesay insisted on bringing his 
followers hither, neither he nor they should have 
passed the iron gate of Lochleven castle. ” 

" I speak not of private slaughter, my son, but 
of open trial, condemnation, and execution ; for 
with such she has. been threatened, and to such 
threats she has given way. Had she not more of 
the false Guisian blood than of the royal race of 
Scotland in her ’^eins, she had bidden them defi- 
ance to their teeth — But it is all of the same com- 
plexion, and meanness is the natural companion of 
profligacy. — I am discharged, forsooth, from in- 
truding on her gracious presence this evening. Go 
thou, my son, and render the usual service of the 
meal to this unqueened Queen. ” 

“ So please you, lady mother, ” said Douglas," I 
care not greatly to approach her presence. ” 

" Thou art right, my son ; and therefore I trust 
thy prudence, even because I have noted thy cau- 
tion. She is like an isle on tne ocean, surrounded 
with shelves and quicksands ; its verdure fair and 
inviting to the eye, but the wreck of many a goodly 
vessel which had approached it too rashly. But 
for thee, my son, I fear nought ; and we may not, 
with our honour, suffer her to eat without the at- 
tendance of one of us. She may die by the judg- 
ment of Heaven, or the fiend may have power over 
her in her despair ; and then we would be touched 


46 


THE ABBOT. 


in honour to show, that in our house, and at our 
table, she had had all fair play and fitting usage. ” 
Here Roland was interrupted by a smart tap on 
the shoulders, reminding him sharply of Adam 
Woodcock’s adventure of the preceding evening. 
He turned round, almost expecting to see the page 
of Saint Michael’s hostelry. He saw, indeed, 
Catherine Seyton; but she was in female attire, 
differing, no doubt, a great deal in shape and mate- 
rials from that which she had worn when they first 
met, and becoming her birth as the daughter of a 
great baron, and her rank as the attendant on a prin- • 
cess. " So, fair page, ” said she, “ eaves-dropping is 
one of your page-like qualities, I presume ? ” 

" Fair sister, ” answered Roland, in the same 
tone, " if some friends of mirie be as well ac- 
quainted with the rest of our mystery as they are 
with the arts of swearing, swaggering, and switch- 
ing, they need ask no page in Christendom for fur- 
ther insight into his vocation. ” 

" Unless that pretty speech infer that you have 
yourself had the discipline of the switch since we 
last met, the probability whereof I nothing doubt, 

I profess, fair page, I am at a loss to conjecture 
your meaning. But there is no time to debate it 
now — they come with the evening meal. Be 
pleased. Sir Page, to do your duty. ” 

Four servants entered hearing dishes, preceded 
by the same stern old steward whom Roland had 
already seen, and followed by George Douglas, al- 
ready mentioned as the grandson of the Lady of 
Lochleven, and who, acting as seneschal, repre- 
sented, upon this occasion, his father, the Lord of 
the Castle. He entered with his arms folded on 
his bosom, and his looks bent on the ground. With 


THE ABBOT. 


47 


the assistance of Eoland Graeme, a table was suit- 
ably covered in the next or middle apartment, on 
which the domestics placed their burdens with 
great reverence, the steward and Douglas bending 
low when they had seen the table properly adorned, 
as if their royal prisoner had sat at the board in 
question. The door opened, and Douglas, raising 
his eyes hastily, cast them again on the earth, 
when he perceived it was only the Lady Mary 
Fleming. who entered. 

" Her Grace, ” she said, " will* not eat to-night. ” 

" Let us hope she may be otherwise persuaded, ” 
said Douglas ; “ meanwhile, madam, please to see 
our duty performed. ” 

A servant presented bread and salt on a silver' 
plate, and the old steward carved for Douglas a 
small morsel in succession from each of the dishes 
presented, which he tasted, as was then the custom 
at the tables of princes, to which death was often 
suspected to find its way in the disguise of food. 

“ The Queen will not then come forth to-night ? ” 
said Douglas. 

“ She has so determined, ” replied the lady. 

" Our further attendance then is unnecessary — ■ 
we leave you to your supper, fair ladies, and wish 
you good-even. ” 

He retired slowly as he came, and with the same 
air of deep dejection, and was followed by the at- 
tendants belonging to the castle. The two ladies 
sate down to their meal, and Eoland Graeme, with 
ready alacrity, prepared to wait upon them. Cath- 
erine Seyton whispered to her companion, who re- 
plied with the question, spoken in a low tone, but 
looking at the page, — " Is he of gentle blood and 
well nurtured ? ” 


48 


THE ABBOT. 


The answer which she received seemed satisfac- 
tory, for she said to Koland, " Sit down, young gen- 
tleman, and eat with your sisters in captivity. ” 

“ Permit me rather to perform my duty in at- 
tending them, ” said Poland, anxious to show he 
was possessed of the high tone of deference pre- 
scribed by the rules of chivalry towards the fair 
sex, and especially to dames and maidens of 
quality. 

" You will find, Sir Page,” said Catherine, " you 
will have little time allowed you for your meal; 
waste it not in ceremony, or you may rue your 
politeness ere to-morrow morning. ” 

“ Your speech is too free, maiden, ” said the elder 
lady ; “ the modesty of the youth may teach you 
more fitting fashions towards one whom to-day you 
have seen for the first time. ” 

Catherine Seyton cast down her eyes, but not till 
she had given a single glance of inexpressible arch- 
ness towards Poland, whom her more grave com- 
panion now addressed in a tone of protection. 

“ Pegard her not, young gentleman — she knows 
little of the world, save the forms of a country 
nunnery — take thy place at the board-end, and 
refresh thyself after thy journey. ” 

Poland Grseme obeyed willingly, as it was the 
first food he had that day tasted ; for Lindesay and 
his followers seemed regardless of human wants. 
Yet, notwithstanding the sharpness of his appe- 
tite, a natural gallantry of disposition, the desire 
of showing himself a well-nurtured gentleman in 
all courtesies towards the fair sex, and, for aught I 
know, the pleasure of assisting Catherine Seyton, 
kept his attention awake, during the meal, to all 
those nameless acts of duty and service which gal- 


THE ABBOT. 


49 

lants of that age were accustomed to render. He 
carved with neatness and decorum, and selected 
duly whatever was most delicate to place before 
the ladies. Ere they could form a wish, he 
sprung from the table, ready to comply with it — 
poured wine — tempered it with water — removed 
and exchanged trenchers, and performed the whole 
honours of the table, with an air at once of 
cheerful diligence, profound respect, and graceful 
promptitude. 

When he observed that they had finished eating, 
he hastened to offer to the elder lady the silver 
ewer, basin, and napkin, with the ceremony and 
gravity which he would have used towards Mary 
herself. He next, with the same decorum, having 
supplied the basin with fair water, presented it to 
Catherine Seyton. Apparently, she was deter- 
mined to disturb his self-possession, if possible; 
for while in the act of bathing her hands, she con- 
trived, as it were by accident, to flirt some drops 
of water upon the face of the assiduous assistant. 
But if such was her mischievous purpose she was 
completely disappointed; for Boland Graeme, in- 
ternally piquing himself on his self-command, 
neither laughed nor was discomposed ; and all that 
the maiden gained by her frolic was a severe re- 
buke from her companion, taxing her with mal- 
address and indecorum. Catherine replied not, 
but sat pouting, something in the humour of a 
spoilt child, who watches the opportunity of wreak- 
ing upon some one or other its resentment for a 
deserved reprimand. 

The Lady Mary Fleming, in the meanwhile, was 
naturally well pleased with the exact and reverent 
observance of the page, and said to Catherine, 

VOL. II. — 4 


THE ABBOT. 


SO 

after a favourable glance at Koland Grseme, — " You 
might well say, Catherine, our companion in cap- 
tivity was well born and gently nurtured. I would 
not make him vain by my praise, but his services 
enable us to dispense with those which George 
Douglas condescends not to afford us, save when 
the Queen is herself in presence. ” 

“ Umph ! I think hardly, answered Catherine. 
“ George Douglas is one of the most handsome gal- 
lants in Scotland, and ’tis pleasure to see him 
even still, when the gloom of Lochleven Castle has 
shed the same melancholy over him, that it has 
done over every thing else. When he was at Holy- 
rood, who would have said the young sprightly 
George Douglas would have been contented to play 
the locksman here in Lochleven, with no gayer 
amusement than that of turning the key on two or 
three helpless women ? — a strange office for a 
Knight of the Bleeding Heart — why does he not 
leave it to his father or his brothers ? ” 

" Perhaps, like us, he has no choice, ” answered 
the Lady Fleming. “ But, Catherine, thou hast 
used thy brief space at court well, to remember 
what George Douglas was then. ” 

“ I used mine eyes, which I suppose was what I 
was designed to do, and they were worth using 
there. When I was at the nunnery, they were very 
useless appurtenances ; and now I am at Lochleven, 
they are good for nothing, save to look over that 
eternal work of embroidery. ” 

“ You speak thus, when you have been but a few 
brief hours amongst us — was this the maiden who 
would live and die in a dungeon, might she but 
have permission to wait on her gracious Queen ? ” 

“ Nay, if you chide in earnest, my jest is ended, 


THE ABBOT. 


51 


said Catherine Sfeyton. " I would not yield in at- 
tachment to my poor godmother, to the gravest 
dame that ever had wise saws upon her tongue, and 
a double-starched ruff around her throat — you 
know I would not. Dame Mary Fleming, and it is 
putting shame on me to say otherwise. ” 

" She will chall'enge the other court lady, ” 
thought Eoland Graeme ; " she will to a certainty 
fling down her glove, and if Dame Mary Fleming 
hath but the soul to lift it, we may have a com- 
bat in the lists ! ” — But the answer of Lady Mary 
Fleming was such as turns away wrath. 

“ Thou art a good child, ” she said, " my Cathe- 
rine, and a faithful; but Heaven pity him who 
shall have one day a creature so beautiful to de- 
light him, and a thing so mischievous to torment 
him — thou art fit to drive twenty husbands stark 
mad. ” 

" Nay, ” said Catherine, resuming the full career 
of her careless good-humour, " he must be half- 
witted beforehand, that gives me such an opportu- 
nity. But I am glad you are not angry 'with me 
in sincerity, ” casting herself as she spoke into the 
arms of her friend, and continuing, with a tone of 
apologetic fondness, while she kissed her on either 
side of the face ; “ you know, my dear Fleming, 
that I have to contend with both my father’s lofty 
pride, and with my mother’s high spirit — God 
bless them ! they have left me these good qualities, 
having small portion to give besides, as times go 
— and so I am wilful and saucy ; but let me re- 
main only a week in this castle, and 0, my dear 
Fleming, my spirit will be as chastised and as 
bumble as thine own. ” 

Dame Mary Fleming’s sense of dignity, and love 


5 * 


THE ABBOT. 


of form, could not resist this affectionate appeal 
She kissed Catherine Seyton in her turn affection* 
ately ; while, answering the last part of her speech, 
she said, " Now, Our Lady forbid, dear Catherine, 
that you should lose aught that is beseeming of 
what becomes so well your light heart and lively 
humour. Keep but your sharp wit on this side of 
madness, and it cannot but be a blessing to us. 
But let me go, mad wench — I hear her Grace 
touch her silver call. ” And, extricating herself 
from Catherine’s grasp, she went towards the door 
of Queen Mary’s apartment, from which was heard 
the low tone of a silver whistle, which, now only 
used by the boatswains in the navy, was then, for 
want of bells, the ordinary mode by which ladies, 
even of the very highest rank, summoned their 
domestics. When she had made two or three steps 
towards the door, however, she turned back, and 
advancing to the young couple whom she left to- 
gether, she said, in a very serious though a low 
tone, " I trust it is impossible that we can, any of 
us, or in any circumstances, forget, that, few as 
we are, we form the household of the Queen of 
Scotland; and that, in her calamity, all boyish 
mirth and childish jesting can only serve to give a 
great triumph to her enemies, who have already 
found their account in objecting to her the light- 
ness of every idle folly, that the young and the 
gay practised in her court. ” So saying, she left 
the apartment. 

Catherine Seyton seemed much struck Vith this 
remonstrance — She suffered herself to drop into 
the seat which she had quitted when she went to 
embrace Dame Mary Fleming, and for some time 
rested her brow upon her hands; while Eoland 


THE ABBOT. 


53 


Graeme looked at her earnestly, with a mixture of 
emotions which perhaps he himself could neither 
have analyzed nor explained. As she raised her 
face slowly from the posture to which a momentary 
feeling of self-rebuke had depressed it, her eyes 
encountered those of Koland, and became gradually 
animated with their usual spirit of malicious droll- 
ery, which not unnaturally excited a similar ex- 
pression in those of the equally volatile page. 
They sat for the space of two minutes, each look- 
ing at the other with great seriousness on their 
features, and much mirth in their eyes, until at 
length Catherine was the first to break silence. 

“ May I pray you, fair sir, ” she began very de- 
murely, “ to tell me what you see in my face to 
arouse looks so extremely sagacious and knowing 
as those with which it is your worship’s pleasure 
to honour me ? It would seem as there were some 
wonderful confidence and intimacy betwixt us, fair 
sir, if one is to judge from your extremely cunning 
looks ; and so help me. Our Lady, as I never saw 
you but twice in my life before. ” 

" And where were those happy occasions, ” said 
Koland, “ if I may be bold enough to ask the 
question ? ” 

" At the nunnery of Saint Catherine’s,” said the 
damsel, " in the first instance ; and, in the second, 
during five minutes of a certain raid or foray which 
it was your pleasure to make into the lodging of 
my lord and father. Lord Seyton, from which, to my 
surprise, as probably to your own, you returned 
with a token of friendship and favour, instead of 
broken bones, which were the more probable re- 
ward of your intrusion, considering the prompt ire 
of the house of Seyton. I am deeply mortified, ' 


54 


THE ABBOT. 


she added, ironically, “ that your recollection 
should require refreshment on a subject so import- 
ant ; and that my memory should be stronger than 
yours on such an occasion, is truly humiliating. ” 

“ Your own memory is not so exactly correct, 
fair mistress, ” answered the page, “ seeing you 
have forgotten meeting the third, in the hostelry 
of Saint Michael’s, when it pleased you to lay 
your switch across the face of my comrade, in or- 
der, I warrant, to show that, in the house of 
Seyton, neither the prompt ire of its descendants, 
nor the use of the doublet and hose, are subject to 
Salique law, or confined to the use of the males. ” 

“ Fair sir, ” answered Catherine, looking at him 
with great steadiness, and some surprise, “ unless 
your fair wits have forsaken you, I am at a loss 
what to conjecture of your meaning. ” 

“ By my troth, fair mistress, ” answered Boland, 
“ and were I as wise a warlock as Michael Scott, 
I could scarce riddle the drean^ you read me. Did 
I not see you last night in the hostelry of Saint 
Michael’s ? — Did you not bring me this sword, 
with command not to draw it, save at the com- 
mand of my native and rightful Sovereign ? And 
have I not done as you required me ? Or is the 
sword a piece of lath — my word a bulrush — my 
memory a dream — and my eyes good for nought 
— espials which corbies might pick out of my 
head ? ” 

“ And if your eyes serve you not more truly on 
other occasions than in your vision of Saint Mi- 
chael, ” said Catherine, “ I know not, the pain 
apart, that the corbies would do you any great in- 
jury in the deprivation — But hark, the bell — ^ 
hush, for God’s sake, we are interrupted. ” 


THE ABBOT. 


55 


The damsel was right; for no sooner had the 
dull toll of the castle bell begun to resound through 
the vaulted apartment, than the door of the vesti- 
bule flew open, and the steward, with his severe 
countenance, his gold chain, and his white rod, 
entered the apartment, followed by the same train 
of domestics who had placed the dinner on the 
table, and who now, with the same ceremonious 
formality, began to remove it. 

The steward remained motionless as some old 
picture, while the domestics did their office; and 
when it was accomplished, every thing removed 
from the table, and the board itself taken from its 
tressels and disposed against the wall, he said 
aloud, without addressing any one in particular, 
and somewhat in the tone of a herald reading a 
proclamation, “ My noble Lady, Dame Margaret 
Erskine, by marriage Douglas, lets the Lady Mary 
of Scotland and her attendants to wit, that a ser- 
vant of the true evangele, her reverend chaplain, 
will to-night, as usual, expound, lecture, and cate- 
chise, according to the forms of the congregation 
of gospellers. ” 

“ Hark you, my friend, Mr. Dryfesdale, ” said 
Catherine, " I understand this announcement is a 
nightly form of yours. Now, I pray you to re- 
mark, that the Lady Fleming and I — for I trust 
your insolent invitation concerns us only — have 
chosen Saint Peter’s pathway to heaven, so I 
see no one whom your godly exhortation, cate- 
chise, or lecture, can benefit excepting this poor 
page, who, being in Satan’s hand as well as your- 
self, had better worship with you than remain to 
cumber our better-advised devotions. ” 

The page was wellnigh giving a round denial to 


THE ABBOT. 


56 

the assertions which this speech implied, when, 
remembering what had passed betwixt him and the 
Eegent, and seeing Catherine’s finger raised in a 
monitory fashion, he felt himself, as on former 
occasions at the Castle of Avenel, obliged to sub- 
mit to the task of dissimulation, and followed 
Dryfesdale down to the castle chapel, where he 
assisted in the devotions of the evening. 

The chaplain was named Elias Henderson. He 
was a man in the prime of life, and possessed of 
good natural parts, carefully improved by the best 
education which those times afforded. To these 
qualities were added a faculty of close and terse 
reasoning ; and, at intervals, a flow of happy illus- 
tration and natural eloquence. The religious faith 
of Koland Graeme, as we have already had oppor- 
tunity to observe, rested on no secure basis, but 
was entertained rather in obedience to his grand- 
mother’s behests, and his secret desire to contra- 
dict the chaplain of Avenel Castle, than from any 
fixed or steady reliance which he placed on the 
Eomish creed. His ideas had been of late consider- 
ably enlarged by the scenes he had passed through ; 
and feeling that there was shame in not under- 
standing something of those political disputes be- 
twixt the professors of the ancient and of the 
reformed faith, he listened with more attention than 
it had hitherto been in his nature to yield on such 
occasions, to an animated discussion of some of the 
principal points of difference betwixt the churches. 
So passed away the first day in the Castle of Loch- 
leven ; and those which followed it, were, for some 
time, of a very monotonous and uniform tenor. 


CHAPTEK IV. 


'Tis a weary life this 

Vaults overhead, and grates and bars around me. 

And my sad hours spent with as sad companions, 

Whose thoughts are brooding o’er their own mischances, 

Far, far too deeply to take part in mine. 

The Woodsman, 

The course of life to which Mary and her little 
retinue were doomed, was in the last degree se- 
cluded and lonely, varied only as the weather per- 
mitted or rendered impossible the Queen’s usual 
walk in the garden, or on the battlements. The 
greater part of the morning she wrought with her 
ladies at those pieces of needlework, many of which 
still remain proofs of her indefatigable application. 
At such hours the page was permitted the freedom 
of the castle and islet; nay, he was sometimes 
invited to attend George Douglas when he went 
a-sporting upon the lake, or on its margin ; oppor- 
tunities of diversion, which were only clouded by 
the remarkable melancholy which always seemed 
to brood on that gentleman’s brow, and to mark 
his whole demeanour, — a sadness so profound, 
that Poland never observed him to smile, or to 
speak any word unconnected with the immediate 
object of his exercise. 

The most pleasant part of Roland’s day, was the 
occasional space which he was permitted to pass in 
personal attendance on the Queen and her ladies, 
together with the regular dinner-time, which he 
always spent with Dame Mary Fleming and Gath- 


58 


THE ABBOT. 


erine Seyton. At these periods, he had frequent 
occasion to admire the lively spirit and inventive 
imagination of the latter damsel, who was unwearied 
in her contrivances to amuse her mistress, and to 
banish, for a time at least, the melancholy which 
preyed on her bosom. She danced, she sung, she 
recited tales of ancient and modern times, with that 
heartfelt exertion of talent, of which the pleasure 
lies not in the vanity of displaying it to others, but 
in the enthusiastic consciousness that we possess it 
ourselves. And yet these high accomplishments 
were mixed with an air of rusticity and harebrained 
vivacity, which seemed rather to belong to some 
village-maid, the coquette of the ring around the 
Maypole, than to the high-bred descendant of an 
ancient baron. A touch of audacity, altogether short 
of effrontery, and far less approaching to vulgarity, 
gave as it were a wildness to all that she did ; and 
Mary, while defending her from some of the occa- 
sional censures of her grave companion, compared 
her to a trained singing-bird escaped from a cage, 
which practises in all the luxuriance of freedom, and 
in full possession of the greenwood bough, the airs 
which it had learned during its earlier captivity. 

The moments which the page was permitted to 
pass in the presence of this fascinating creature, 
danced so rapidly away, that, brief as they were, 
they compensated the weary dulness of all the rest 
of the day. The space of indulgence, however, was 
always brief, nor were any private interviews be- 
twixt him and Catherine permitted, or even pos- 
sible. Whether it were some special precaution 
respecting the Queen’s household, or whether it 
were her general ideas of propriety. Dame Fleming 
seemed particularly attentive to prevent the young 


THE ABBOT. 


59 


people from holding any separate correspondence 
together, and bestowed, for Catherine’s sole benefit in 
this matter, the full stock of prudence and experi- 
ence which she had acquired when mother of the 
Queen’s maidens of honour, and by which she had 
gained their hearty hatred. Casual meetings, how- 
ever, could not be prevented, unless Catherine had 
been more desirous of shunning, or Koland Graeme 
less anxious in watching for them. A smile, a gibe, 
a sarcasm, disarmed of its severity by the arch look 
with which it was accompanied, was all that time 
permitted to pass between them on such occasions. 
But such passing interviews neither afforded means 
nor opportunity to renew the discussion of the cir- 
cumstances attending their earlier acquaintance, nor 
to permit Eoland to investigate more accurately 
the mysterious apparition of the page in the purple 
velvet cloak at the hostelry of Saint Michael’s. 

The winter months slipped heavily away, and 
spring was already advanced, when Eoland Graeme 
observed a gradual change in the manners of his 
fellow-prisoners. Having no business of his own 
to attend to, and being, like those of his age, edu- 
cation, and degree, sufficiently curious concerning 
what passed around, he began by degrees to sus- 
pect, and finally to be convince^ that there was 
something in agitation among his companions in 
captivity, to which they did not desire that he 
should be privy. Hay, he became almost certain 
that, by some means unintelligible to him. Queen 
Mary held correspondence beyond the walls and 
waters which surrounded her prison-house, and that 
she nourished some secret hope of deliverance or 
escape. In the conversations betwixt her and her 
attendants, at which he was necessarily present, the 


6o 


THE ABBOT. 


Queen could not always avoid showing that she was 
acquainted with the events which were passing 
abroad in the world, and which he only heard through 
her report. He observed that she wrote more and 
worked less than had been her former custom, and 
that, as if desirous to lull suspicion asleep, she 
changed her manner towards the Lady Lochleven 
into one more gracious, and which seemed to express 
a resigned submission to her lot. “ They think I 
am blind,” he said to himself, “ and that I am unfit 
to be trusted because I am so young, or it may be 
because I was sent hither by the Kegent. Well ! — 
be it so — they may be glad to confide in me in the 
long run ; and Catherine Seyton, for as saucy as she 
is, may find me as safe a confidant as that sullen 
Douglas, whom she is always running after. It may 
be they are angry with me for listening to Master 
Elias Henderson; but it was their own fault for 
sending me there ; and if the man speaks truth and 
good sense, and preaches only the word of God, he is 
as likely to be right as either Pope or Councils.” 

It is probable that in this last conjecture, Poland 
Graeme had hit upon the real cause why the ladies 
had not intrusted him with their counsels. He had 
of late had several conferences with Henderson on 
the subject of religion, and had given him to un- 
derstand that he stood in need of his instructions, 
although he had not thought there was either pru- 
dence or necessity for confessing that hitherto he 
had held the tenets of the Church of Home. 

Elias Henderson, a keen propagator of the re- 
formed faith, had sought the seclusion of Lochleven 
Castle, with the express purpose and expectation of 
making converts from Eome amongst the domestics 
of the dethroned Queen, and confirming the faith of 


THE ABBOT. 


6i 


those who already held the protestant doctrines. 
Perhaps his hopes soared a little higher, and he 
might nourish some expectation of a proselyte more 
distinguished, in the person of the deposed Queen. 
But the pertinacity with which she and her female 
attendants refused to see or listen to him, rendered 
such hope, if he nourished it, altogether abortive. 

The opportunity, therefore, of enlarging the reli- 
gious information of Eoland Graeme, and bringing 
him to a more due sense of his duties to Heaven, ^as 
hailed by the good man as a door opened by Provi- 
dence for the salvation of a sinner. He dreamed 
not, indeed, that he was converting a papist, but 
such was the ignorance which Eoland displayed 
upon some material points of the reformed doctrine, 
that Master Henderson, while praising his docility 
to the Lady Lochlevcn and her grandson, seldom 
failed to add, that his venerable brother, Henry 
Warden, must be now decayed in strength and in 
mind, since he found a catechumen of his flock so 
ill-grounded in the principles of his belief. For 
this, indeed, Eoland Grseme thought it was unneces- 
sary to assign the true reason, which was his having 
made it a point of honour to forget all that Henry 
Warden taught him, as . soon as he was no longer 
compelled to repeat it over as a lesson acquired by 
rote. The lessons of his new instructor, if not more 
impressively delivered, were received by a more 
willing ear, and a more awakened understanding, 
and the solitude of Lochleven Castle was favourable 
to graver thoughts than the page had hitherto en- 
tertained. He wavered yet, indeed, as one who was 
almost persuaded; but his attention to the chap- 
lain’s instructions procured him favour even with 
the stem old dame herself; and he was once or 


62 


THE ABBOT. 


twice, but under great precaution, permitted to go 
to the neighbouring village of Kinross, situated on 
the mainland, to execute some ordinary commission 
of his unfortunate mistress. 

For some time Eoland Grseme ' might be con- 
sidered as standing neuter betwixt the two parties 
who inhabited the water-girdled Tower of Loch- 
leven ; but, as he rose in the opinion of the Lady 
of the Castle and her chaplain, he perceived, with 
great grief, that he lost ground in that of Mary and 
her female allies. • 

He came gradually to be sensible that he was 
regarded as a spy upon their discourse, and that, 
instead of the ease with which they had formerly 
conversed in his presence, without suppressing any 
of the natural feelings of anger, of sorrow, or mirth, 
which the chance topic of the moment happened to 
call forth, their talk was now guardedly restricted 
to the most indifferent subjects, and a studied re- 
serve observed even in the mode of treating these. 
This obvious want of confidence was accompanied 
with a correspondent change in their personal de- 
meanour towards the unfortunate page. The Queen, 
who had at first treated him with marked courtesy, 
now scarce spoke to him, save to convey some 
necessary command for her service. The Lady 
Fleming restricted her notice to the most dry and 
distant expressions of civility, and Catherine Seyton 
became bitter in her pleasantries, and shy, cross, and 
pettish, in any intercourse they had together. What 
was yet more provoking, he saw, or thought he saw, 
marks of intelligence betwixt George Douglas and 
the beautiful Catherine Seyton ; and, sharpened by 
jealousy, he wrought himself almost into a certainty, 
that the looks which they exchanged conveyed 


THE ABBOT. 


63 


matters of deep and serious import. " ITo wonder,” 
he thought, “ if, courted by the son of a proud and 
powerful baron, she can no longer spare a word or 
look to the poor fortuneless page.” 

In a word, Eoland Graeme’s situation became truly 
disagreeable, and his heart naturally enough rebelled 
against the injustice of this treatment, which de- 
prived him of the only comfort which he had 
received for submitting to a confinement in other 
respects irksome. He accused Queen Mary and 
Catherine Seyton (for concerning the opinion of 
Dame Fleming he was indifferent) of inconsistency 
in being displeased with him on account of the 
natural consequences of an order of their own. 
Why did they send him to hear this overpowering 
preacher ? The Abbot Ambrosius, he recollected, 
understood the weakness of their Popish cause 
better, when he enjoined him to repeat within his 
own mind aves, and credos^ and paters, all the while 
old Henry Warden preached or lectured, that so he 
might secure himself against lending even a momen- 
tary ear to his heretical doctrine. “But I will 
endure this life no longer,” said he to himself, man- 
fully ; “ do they suppose I would betray my mistress, 
because I see cause to doubt of her religion ? — that 
would be a serving, as they say, the devil for God’s 
sake. I will forth into the world — he that serves 
fair ladies, may at least expect kind looks and kind 
words ; and I bear not the mind of a gentleman, to 
submit to cold treatment and suspicion, and a life- 
long captivity besides. I will speak to George 
Douglas to-morrow when we go out a-fishing.” 

A sleepless night was spent in agitating this mag- 
nanimous resolution, and he arose in the morning 
not perfectly decided in his own mind whether he 


64 


THE ABBOT. 


should abide by it or not. It happened that be was 
summoned by the Queen at an unusual hour, and 
just as he was about to go out with George Douglas. 
He went to attend her commands in the garden ; 
but as he had his angling-rod in his hand, the 
circumstance announced his previous intention, and 
the Queen, turning to the Lady Fleming, said, 
“ Catherine must devise some other amusement for 
us, ma bonne amie ; our discreet page has already 
made his party for the day’s pleasure.” 

‘‘ I said from the beginning,” answered the Lady 
Fleming, “ that your Grace ought not to rely on 
being favoured with the company of a youth who 
has so many Huguenot acquaintances, and has the 
means of amusing himself far more agreeably than 
with us.” 

“ I wish,” said Catherine, her animated features 
reddening with mortification, “that his friends 
would sail away with him for good, and bring us in 
return a page (if such a thing can be found) 
faithful to his Queen and to his religion.” 

“ One part of your wishes may be granted, 
madam,” said Eoland Graeme, unable any longer to 
restrain his sense of the treatment which he received 
on all sides ; and he was about to add, “ I heartily 
wish you a companion in my room, if such can be 
found, who is capable of enduring women’s caprices 
without going distracted.” Luckily, he recollected 
the remorse which he had felt at having given way 
to the vivacity of his temper upon a similar occa- 
sion ; and closing his lips, imprisoned, until it died 
on his tongue, a reproach so misbecoming the 
presence of majesty. 

“Why do you remain there,” said the Queen, 
“as if you were rooted to the parterre?” 


THE ABBOT. . 65 

“ I but attend your Grace’s commands,” said the 
page. 

“ I have none to give you — Begone, sir ! ” 

As he left the garden to go to the boat, he dis- 
tinctly heard Mary upbraid one of her attendants 
in these words : — “ You see to what you have 
exposed us ! ” 

This brief scene at once determined Roland 
Graeme’s resolution to quit the castle, if it were 
possible, and to impart his resolution to George 
Douglas without loss of time. That gentleman, in 
his usual mood of silence, sate in the stern of the 
little skiff which they used on such occasions, trim- 
ming his fishing-tackle, and, from time to time, 
indicating by signs to Graeme, who pulled the oars, 
which way he should row. When they were a 
furlong or two from the castle, Roland rested on 
the oars, and addressed his companion somewhat 
abruptly, — “I have something of importance to 
say to you, under your pleasure, fair sir.” 

The pensive melancholy of Douglas’s countenance 
at once gave way to the eager, keen, and startled 
look of one who expects to hear something of deep 
and alarming import. 

“ I am wearied to the very death of this Castle 
of Lochleven,” continued Roland. 

“ Is that all ? ” said Douglas ; I know none of 
its inhabitants who are much better pleased with it.” 

« Ay — but I am neither a native of the house, 
nor a prisoner in it, and so I may reasonably desire 
to leave it.” 

« You might desire to quit it with equal reason,” 
answered Douglas, “ if you were both the one and 
the other.” 

« But,” said Roland Graeme, “ I am not only tired 

VOL. II. — 5 


66 THE ABBOT. 

of living in Lochleven Castle, but I am determined 
to quit it.” 

“That is a resolution more easily taken than 
executed,” replied Douglas. 

“ Not if yourself, sir, and your Lady Mother, 
choose to consent,” answered the page. 

“ You mistake the matter, Koland,” said Douglas ; 

“ you will find that the consent of two other persons 
is equally essential — that of the Lady Mary your 
mistress, and that of my uncle the Eegent, who 
placed you about her person, and who will not think 
it proper that she should change her attendants so 
soon.” 

“ And must I then remain whether I will or no ? ” 
demanded the page, somewhat appalled at a view 
of the subject, which would have occurred sooner 
to a person of more experience. 

“ At least,” said George Douglas, “ you must . 
will to remain till my uncle consents to dismiss you.” 

“ Frankly,” said the page, “ and speaking to you 
as a gentleman who is incapable of betraying me, I 
will confess, that if I thought myself a prisoner here, 
neither walls nor water should confine me long.” 

“Frankly,” said Douglas, “I could not much 
blame you for the attempt ; yet, for all that, my 
father, or uncle, or the earl, or any of my brothers, 
or in short any of the king’s lords into whose hands 
you fell, would in such a case hang you like a dog, 
or like a sentinel who deserts his post; and I 
promise you that you will hardly escape them. But 
row towards Saint Serfs island — there is a breeze 
from the west, and we shall have sport, (/) keeping 
to windward of the isle, where the ripple is strongest. 
We will speak more of what you have mentioned 
when we have had an hour’s sport.” 


THE ABBOT. 


67 


Their fishing was successful, though never did two 
anglers pursue even that silent and unsocial pleasure 
with less of verbal intercourse. 

When their time was expired, Douglas took the 
oars in his turn, and by his order Eoland Grseme 
steered the boat, directing her course upon the land- 
ing-place at the castle. But he also stopped in the 
midst of his course, and, looking around him, said to 
Graeme, “ There is a thing which I could mention to 
thee ; but it is so deep a secret, that even here, sur- 
rounded as we are by waves and sky, without the pos- 
sibility of a listener, I cannot prevail on myself to 
speak it out.” 

“ Better leave it unspoken, sir,” answered Eoland 
Graeme, “ if you doubt the honour of him who alone 
can hear it.” 

“ I doubt not your honour,” replied George Doug- 
las ; “ but you are young, imprudent, and changeful.” 

“ Young,” said Eoland, ‘‘ I am, and it may be im- 
prudent — but who hath informed you that I am 
changeful ? ” 

“One that knows you, perhaps, better than you 
know yourself,” replied Douglas. 

“ I suppose you mean Catherine Seyton,” said the 
page, his heart rising as he spoke ; “ but she is her- 
self fifty times more variable in her humour than the 
very water which we are floating upon.” 

“My young acquaintance,” said Douglas, “I pray 
you to remember that Catherine Seyton is a lady 
of blood and birth, and must not be lightly spoken 
of.” 

“ Master George of Douglas,” said Grseme, “ as that 
speech seemed to be made under the warrant of some- 
thing like a threat, I pray you to observe, that I value 
not the threat at the estimation of a fln of one of 


68 


THE ABBOT. 


these dead trouts ; and, moreover, I would have you 
to know that the champion who undertakes the de- 
fence of every lady of blood and birth, whom men 
accuse of change of faith and of fashion, is like to 
have enough of work on his hands.” 

“ Go to,” said the Seneschal, but in a tone of good- 
humour, “ thou art a foolish boy, unfit to deal with 
any matter more serious than the casting of a net, or 
the flying of a hawk.” 

“ If your secret concern Catherine Seyton,” said the 
page, “ I care not for it, and so you may tell her if 
you will, I wot she can shape you opportunity to 
speak with her, as she has ere now.” 

The flush which passed over Douglas’s face, made 
the page aware that he had lighted on a truth, when 
he was, in fact, speaking at random ; and the feeling 
that he had done so, was like striking a dagger into 
his own heart. His companion, without further an- 
swer, resumed the oars, and pulled lustily till they 
arrived at the island and the castle. The servants 
received the produce of their sport, and the two 
Ashers, turning from each other in silence, went each 
to his several apartment. 

Koland Grseme had spent about an hour in grum- 
bling against Catherine Seyton, the Queen, the Ke- 
gent, and the whole House of Lochleven, with George 
Douglas at the head of it, when the time approached 
that his duty called him to attend the meal of Queen 
Mary. As he arranged his dress for this purpose, he 
grudged the trouble, which, on similar occasions, he 
used, with boyish foppery, to consider as one of the 
most important duties of his day ; and when he went 
to take his place behind the chair of the Queen, it 
was with an air of offended dignity, which could not 
escape her observation, and probably appeared to her 


THE ABBOT. 


69 

ridiculous enough, for she whispered something in 
French to her ladies, at which the Lady Fleming 
laughed, and Catherine appeared half diverted and 
half disconcerted. This pleasantry, of which the 
subject was concealed from him, the unfortunate 
page received, of course, as a new offence, and called 
an additional degree of sullen dignity into his mien, 
which might have exposed him to farther raillery, 
but that Mary appeared disposed to make allowance 
for and compassionate his feelings. 

With the peculiar tact and delicacy which no 
woman possessed in greater perfection, she began to 
soothe by degrees the vexed spirit of her magnani- 
mous attendant. The excellence of the fish which 
he had taken in his expedition, the high flavour and 
beautiful red colour of the trouts, which have long 
given distinction to the lake, led her first to express 
her thanks to her attendant for so agreeable an ad- 
dition to her table, especially upon a jour de jeune ; 
and then brought on enquiries into the place where 
the fish had been taken, their size, their peculiarities, 
the times when they were in season, and a compari- 
son between the Lochleven trouts and those which 
are found in the lakes and rivers of the south of Scot- 
land. The ill humour of Eoland Graeme was never 
of an obstinate character. It rolled away like mist 
before the sun, and he was easily engaged in a keen 
and animated dissertation about Lochleven trout, 
and sea trout, and river trout, and bull trout, and 
char, which never rise to a fly, and par, which some 
suppose infant salmon, and herlings, which frequent 
the Nith, and mndisses, which are only found in the 
Castle-Loch of Lochmaben ; and he was hurrying 
on with the eager impetuosity and enthusiasm of a 
young sportsman, when he observed that the smile 


70 


THE ABBOT. 


with which the Queen at first listened to him died 
languidly away, and that, in spite of her efforts to 
suppress them, tears rose to her eyes. He stopped 
suddenly short, and, distressed in his turn, asked, 
“ If he had had the misfortune unwittingly to give 
displeasure to her Grace ? ” 

“No, my poor boy,” replied the Queen; “but as 
you numbered up the lakes and rivers of my king- 
dom, imagination cheated me, as it will do, and 
snatched me from these dreary walls, away to the 
romantic streams of Nithsdale, and the royal towers 
of Lochmaben. — 0 land, which my fathers have so 
long ruled ! of the pleasures which you extend so 
freely, your Queen is now deprived, and the poorest 
beggar, who may wander free fronl one landward 
town to another, would scorn to change fates with 
Mary of Scotland ! ” 

“ Your Highness,” said the Lady Fleming, “ will do 
well to withdraw.” 

“ Come with me then, Fleming,” said the Queen, 
“ I would not burden hearts so young as these are, 
with the sight of my sorrows.” 

She accompanied these words with a look of mel- 
ancholy compassion towards Eoland and Catherine, 
who were now left alone together in the apartment. 

The page found his situation not a little embar- 
rassing ; for, as every reader has .experienced who 
may have chanced to be in such a situation, it is 
extremely difficult to maintain the full dignity of 
an offended person in the presence of a beautiful 
girl, whatever reason we may have for being angry 
with her. Catherine Seyton, on her part, sate still 
like a lingering ghost, which, conscious of the awe 
which its presence imposes, is charitably disposed 
to give the poor confused mortal whom it visits, 


THE ABBOT. 


71 


time to recover his senses, and comply with the 
grand rule of demonology by speaking first. But as 
Eoland seemed in no hurry to avail himself of her 
condescension, she carried it a step farther, and her- 
self opened the conversation. 

“ I pray you, fair sir, if it may be permitted me to 
disturb your august reverie by a question so simple, 
— what may have become of your rosary ? ” 

“ It is lost, madam — lost some time since,” said 
Eoland, partly embarrassed and partly indignant. 

“And may I ask farther, sir,” said Catherine, 
“ why you have not replaced it with another ? — I 
have half a mind,” she said, taking from her pocket 
a string of ebony beads adorned with gold, “ to be- 
stow one upon you, to keep for my sake, just to 
remind you of former acquaintance.” 

There was a little tremulous accent in the tone 
with which these words were delivered, which at 
once put to flight Eoland Graeme’s resentment, and 
brought him to Catherine’s side; but she instantly 
resumed the bold and firm accent which was more 
familiar to her. “ I did not bid you,” she said, 
“ come and sit so close by me ; for the acquaintance 
that I spoke of, has been stiff and cold, dead and 
buried, for this many a day.” 

“ Now Heaven forbid ! ” said the page, “ it has 
only slept ; and now that you desire it should awake, 
fair Catherine, believe me that a pledge of your re- 
turning favour ” ^ 

“Nay, nay,” said Catherine, withholding the 
rosary, towards which, as he spoke, he extended his 
hand, “I have changed my mind on better reflec- 
tion. What should a heretic do with these holy 
beads, that have been blessed by the Father of the 
church himself ? ” 


72 


THE ABBOT. 


Eoland winced grievously, for he saw plainly 
which way the discourse was now likely to tend, 
and felt that it must at all events be embarrassing. 

“ Nay, but,” he said, “ it was as a token of your 
own regard that you offered them.” 

Ay, fair sir, but that regard attended the faith- 
ful subject, the loyal and pious Catholic, the indivi- 
dual who was so solemnly devoted at the same time 
with myself to the same grand duty ; which, you 
must now understand, was to serve the church 
and Queen. To such a person, if you ever heard 
of him, was my regard due, and not to him who 
associates with heretics, and is about to become a 
renegado.” 

“ I should scarce believe, fair mistress,” said Eo- 
land, indignantly, “that the vane of your favour 
turned only to a Catholic wind, considering that it 
points so plainly to George Douglas, who, I think, 
is both kingsman and Protestant.” 

“ Think better of George Douglas,” said Catherine, 

“ than to believe ” and then checking herself, 

as if she had spoken too much, she went on, “ I as- 
sure you, fair Master Eoland, that all who wish you 
well are sorry for you.” 

“ Their number is very few, I believe,” answered 
Eoland, “and their sorrow, if they feel any, not 
deeper than ten minutes’ time will cure.” 

“ They are more numerous, and think more deeply 
concerning you, than you seem to be aware,” an- 
swered Catherine. “ But perhaps they think wrong 
— You are the best judge in your own affairs; 
and if you prefer gold and church-lands to honour 
and loyalty, and the faith of your fathers, why 
should you be hampered in conscience more than 
others ? ” . 


THE ABBOT. 


73 


“ May Heaven bear witness for me,” said Roland, 
that if I entertain any difference of opinion — that 
is, if I nourish any doubts in point of religion, they 
have been adopted on the conviction of my own 
mind, and the suggestion of my own conscience ! ** 

“ Ay, ay, your conscience — your conscience ! ” re- 
peated she with satiric emphasis ; “ your conscience 
is the scape-goat ; I warrant it an able one — it will 
bear the burden of one of the best manors of the 
Abbey of Saint Mary of Kennaquhair, lately for- 
feited to our noble Lord the King, by the Abbot and 
community thereof, for the high crime of fidelity to 
their religious vows, and now to be granted by the 
High and Mighty Traitor, and so forth, James, Earl 
of Murray, to the good squire of dames Roland 
Grseme, for his loyal and faithful service as under- 
espial, and deputy-turnkey, for securing the person 
of his lawful sovereign. Queen Mary.” 

“You misconstrue me cruelly,” said the page; 
“ yes, Catherine, most cruelly — God knows I would 
protect this poor lady at the risk of my life, or with 
my life ; but what can I do — what can any one do 
for her ? ” 

“ Much may be done — enough may be done — 
all may be done — if men will be but true and hon- 
ourable, as Scottish men were in the days of Bruce 
and Wallace. 0, Roland, from what an enterprise 
you are now withdrawing your heart and hand, 
through mere fickleness and coldness of spirit ! ” 
“How can I withdraw,” said Roland, “from an 
enterprise which has never been communicated to 
me ? — Has the Queen, or have you, or has any one, 
communicated with me upon any thing for her ser- 
vice which I have refused ? Or have you not, all of 
you, held me at such a distance from your counsels, 


74 


THE ABBOT. 


as if I were the most faithless spy since the days of 
Ganelon ? ” ^ 

“ And who,” said Catherine Seyton, would trust 
the sworn friend, and pupil, and companion, of the 
heretic preacher Henderson ? ay — a proper tutor 
you have chosen, instead of the excellent Amhrosius, 
who is now turned out of house ^nd homestead, if 
indeed he is not languishing in a. dungeon, for with- 
standing the tyranny of Morton, to whose brother 
the temporalities of that noble house of God have 
been gifted away by the Kegent.” 

“ Is it possible ? ” said the page ; “ and is the ex- 
cellent Father Ambrose in such distress ? ” 

“He would account the news of your falling 
away from the faith of your fathers,” answered 
Catherine, “ a worse mishap than aught that tyranny 
can inflict on himself.” 

“ But why,” said Boland, very much moved, 
“ why should you suppose that — that — that it is 
with me as you say ? ” 

“ Do. you yourself deny it ? ” replied Catherine ; 
“ do you not admit that you have drunk the poison 
which you should have dashed from your lips ? — 
Do you deny that it now ferments in your veins, if 
it has not altogether corrupted the springs of life ? 

— Do you deny that you have your doubts, as you 
proudly term them, respecting what popes and 
councils have declared it unlawful to doubt of ? — 
Is not your faith wavering, if not overthrown ? — 
Does not the heretic preacher boast his conquest ? 

— Does not the heretic woman of this prison-house 
hold up thy example to others ? — Do not the Queen 

^ Gan, Gano, or Ganelon of Mayence, is, in the Romances on 
the subject of Charlemagne and his Paladins, always represented 
as the traitor by whom the Christian champions are betrayed. 


THE ABBOT. 


75 


and the Lady Fleming believe in thy falling away ? 
— And is there any except one — - yes, I will speak 
it out, and think as lightly as you please of my good 
will — is there one except myself that holds even a 
lingering hope that you may yet prove what we once 
all believed of you ? ” 

“ I know not,” said our poor page, much embar- 
rassed by the view which was thus presented to him 
of the conduct he was expected to pursue, and by 
a person in whom he was not the less interested 
that so long a residence in Lochleven Castle, with no 
object so likely to attract his undivided attention, 
had taken place since they had first met, — “I know 
not what you expect of me, or fear from me. I was 
sent hither to attend Queen Mary, and to her I ac- 
knowledge the duty of a servant through life and 
death. If any one had expected service of another 
kind, I was not the party to render it. I neither 
avow nor disclaim the doctrines of the reformed 
church. — Will you have the truth ? — It seems to 
me that the profligacy of the Catholic clergy has 
brought this judgment on their own heads, and, for 
aught I know, it may be for their reformation. 
But, for betraying this unhappy Queen, God knows 
I am guiltless of the thought. Did I even believe 
worse of her, than as her servant I wish — as her 
subject I dare to do — I would not betray her — far 
from it — I would aid her in aught which could tend 
to a fair trial of her cause.” 

“ Enough ! enough ! ” answered Catherine, clasp- 
ing her hands together ; “ then thou wilt not de- 
sert us if any means are presented, by which, plac- 
ing our Eoyal Mistress at freedom, this case may 
be honestly tried betwixt her and her rebellious 
subjects ? ” 


76 


THE ABBOT. 


“Nay — but, fair Catherine,” replied the page, 
“ hear but what the Lord of Murray said when he 
sent me hither ” — 

“Hear but what the devil said,” replied the 
maiden, “ rather than what a false subject, a false 
brother, a false counsellor, a false friend, said ! A 
man raised from a petty pensioner on the crown’s 
bounty, to be the counsellor of majesty, and the 
prime distributor of the bounties of the state ; — 
one with whom rank, fortune, title, consequence, 
and power, all grew up like a mushroom, by the 
mere warm good-will of the sister, whom, in re- 
quital, he hath mewed up in this place of melan- 
choly seclusion — whom, in further requital, he has 
deposed, and whom, if he dared, he would murder ! ” 

“ I think not so ill of the Earl of Murray,” said 
Eoland Grseme ; “ and sooth to speak,” he added, 
with a smile, “ it would require some bribe to make 
me embrace, with firm and desperate resolution, 
either one side or the other.” 

“ Nay, if that is all,” replied Catherine Seyton, 
in a tone of enthusiasm, “ you shall be guerdoned 
with prayers from oppressed subjects — from dis- 
possessed clergy — from insulted nobles — with im- 
mortal praise by future ages — with eager gratitude 
by the present — with fame on earth, and with fe- 
licity in Heaven ! Your country will thank you — 
your Queen will be debtor to you — you will achieve 
at once the highest from the lowest degree in chiv- 
alry — all men will honour, all women will love you 
— and I, sworn with you so early to the accomplish- 
ment of Queen Mary’s freedom, will — yes, I will 
love you better than — ever sister loved brother ! ” 

“ Say on — say on ! ” whispered Eoland, kneel- 
ing on one knee, and taking her hand, which, in 


THE ABBOT. 77 

the warmth of exhortation, Catherine held towards 
him. 

“Nay,” said she, pausing, “I have already said 
too much — far too much, if I prevail not with you 
— far too little if I do. But I prevail,” she con- 
tinued, seeing that the countenance of the youth she 
addressed returned the enthusiasm of her own — “I 
prevail ; or rather the good cause prevails through 
its own strength — thus I devote thee to it.” And 
as she spoke she approached her finger to the brow 
of the astonished youth, and, without touching it, 
signed the cross over his forehead — stooped her face 
towards him, and seemed to kiss the empty space 
in which she had traced the symbol ; then starting 
up, and extricating herself from his grasp, darted 
into the Queen’s apartment. 

Eoland Graeme remained as the enthusiastic 
maiden had left him, kneeling on one knee, with 
breath withheld, and with eyes fixed upon the space 
which the fairy form of Catherine Seyton had so 
lately occupied. If his thoughts were not of un- 
mixed delight, they at least partook of that thrilling 
and intoxicating, though mingled sense of pain and 
pleasure, the most overpowering which life offers in 
its blended cup. He rose and retired slowly ; and 
although the chaplain Mr. Henderson preached on 
that evening his best sermon against the errors of 
popery, I would not engage that he was followed 
accurately through the train of his reasoning by the 
young proselyte, with a view to whose especial bene- 
fit he had handled the subject. 


CHAPTER V. 


And when Love’s torch hath set the heart in flame, 

Comes Seignor Reason, with his saws and cautions, 

Giving such aid as the old grey-beard Sexton^ 

Who from the church-vault drags his crazy engine. 

To ply its dribbling ineffectual streamlet 
Against a conflagration. 

Old Play. 

In a musing mood, Roland Graeme upon the ensu- 
ing morning betook himself to the battlements of 
the castle, as a spot where he might indulge the 
course of his thick-coming fancies with least chance 
of interruption. But his place of retirement was in 
the present case ill chosen, for he w^as presently 
joined by Mr. Elias Henderson. 

“ I sought you, young man,” said the preacher, 
“ having to speak of something which concerns you 
nearly.” 

The page had no pretence for avoiding the con- 
ference which the chaplain thus offered, though he 
felt that it might prove an embarrassing one. 

“In teaching thee, as far as my feeble know- 
ledge hath permitted, thy duty towards God,” said 
the chaplain, “there are particulars of your duty 
towards man, upon which I was unwilling long or 
much to insist. You are here in the service of a 
lady, honourable as touching her birth, deserving of 
all compassion as respects her misfortunes, and gar- 
nished with even but too many of those outward 
(^^uaRties which win men’s regard and affection. 


THE ABBOT. 


79 


Have you ever considered your regard to this Lady 
Mary of Scotland, in its true light and bearing ? ” 

“I trust, reverend sir,” replied Eoland Grseme, 
“ that I am well aware of the duties a servant in 
my condition owes to his royal mistress, especially 
in her lowly and distressed state.” 

“ True,” answered the preacher ; “ but it is even 
that honest feeling which may, in the Lady Mary’s 
case, carry thee into great crime and treachery.” 

“How so, reverend sir?” replied the page; “I 
profess I understand you not.” 

“I speak to you not of the crimes of this ill- 
advised lady,” said the preacher; “they are not 
subjects for the ears of her sworn servant. But it 
is enough to say, that this unhappy person hath 
rejected more offers of grace, more hopes of glory, 
than ever were held out to earthly princes ; and 
that she is now, her day of favour being passed, 
sequestered in this lonely castle, for the common 
weal of the people of Scotland, and it may be for 
the benefit of her own soul.” 

“ Keverend sir,” said Eoland, somewhat impa- 
tiently, “ I am but too well aware that my unfor- 
tunate mistress is imprisoned, since I have the 
misfortune to share in her restraint myself — of 
which, to speak sooth, I am heartily weary.” 

“ It is even of that which I am about to speak,” 
said the chaplain, mildly ; “ but first, my good 
Eoland, look forfh on the pleasant prospect of yon- 
der cultivated plain. You see, where the smoke 
arises, yonder village standing half hidden by the 
trees, and you know it to be the dwelling-place of 
peace and industry. From space to space, each by 
the side of its own stream, you see the grey towers 
of barons, with cottages interspersed ; and you know 


8o 


THE ABBOT. 


that they also, with their household, are now living 
in unity ; the lance hung upon the wall, and the 
sword resting in its sheath. You see, too, more 
than one fair church, where the pure waters of life 
are offered to the thirsty, and where the hungry 
are refreshed with spiritual food. — What would he 
deserve, who should bring fire and slaughter into 
so fair and happy a scene — who should bare the 
swords of the gentry and turn them against each 
other — who should give tower and cottage to the 
flames, and slake the embers with the blood of the 
indwellers? — What would he deserve who should 
lift up again that ancient Dagon of Superstition, 
whom the worthies of the time have beaten down, 
and who should once more make the churches of 
God the high places of Baal ? ” 

“You have limned a frightful picture, reverend 
sir,” said Koland Grseme ; “ yet I guess not whom 
you would charge with the purpose of effecting a 
change so horrible.” 

“ God forbid,” replied the preacher, “ that 1 
should say to thee, thou art the man. — Yet beware, 
Koland Graeme, that thou, in serving thy mistress, 
hold fast the still higher service which thou owest 
to the peace of thy country, and the prosperity of 
her inhabitants; else, Roland Graeme, thou mayst 
be the very man upon whose head will fall the 
curses and assured punishment due to such work. 
If thou art won by the song of these sirens to aid 
that unhappy lady’s escape from this place of peni- 
tence and security, it is over with the peace of Scot- 
land’s cottages, and with the prosperity of her pal- 
aces — and the babe unborn shall curse the name of 
the man who gave inlet to the disorder which will 
follow the war betwixt the mother and the son.” 


THE ABBOT. 


8i 


“ I know of no such plan, reverend sir,” answered 
the page, “ and therefore can aid none such. — My 
duty towards the Queen has been simply that of 
an attendant ; it is a task of which, at times, I would 
willingly have been freed ; nevertheless ” 

“ It is to prepare thee for the enjoyment of some- 
thing more of liberty,” said the preacher, “ that I 
have endeavoured to impress upon you the deep 
responsibility under which your office must be dis- 
charged. George Douglas hath told the Lady Loch- 
leven that you are weary of this service, and my 
intercession hath partly determined her good lady- 
ship, that, as your discharge cannot be granted, you 
shall, instead, be employed in certain commissions 
on the mainland, which have hitherto been dis- 
charged by other persons of confidence. Where- 
fore, come with me to the lady, for even to-day such 
duty will be imposed on you.” 

“ I trust you will hold me excused, reverend sir,” 
said the page, who felt that an increase of confi- 
dence on the part of the Lady of the Castle and her 
family would render his situation in a moral view 
doubly embarrassing, “ one cannot serve two mas- 
ters — and I much fear that my mistress will not hold 
me excused for taking employment under another.” 

“Fear not that,” said the preacher; “her con- 
sent shall be asked and obtained. I fear she will 
yield it but too easily, as hoping to avail herself of 
your agency to maintain correspondence with her 
friends, as those falsely call themselves, who would 
make her name the watchword for civil war.” 

“And thus,” said the page, “I shall be exposed 
to suspicion on all sides ; for my mistress will con- 
sider me as a spy placed on her by her enemies, 
seeing me so far trusted by them; and the Lady 

VOL. II. — 6 


82 


THE ABBOT. 


Lochleven will never cease to suspect tlie possibil- 
ity of my betraying her, because circumstances put 
it into my power to do so — I would rather remain 
as I am.” 

There followed a pause of one or two minutes, 
during which Henderson looked steadily in Bo- 
land’s countenance, as if desirous to ascertain whe- 
ther there was not more in the answer than the 
precise words seemed to imply. He failed in this 
point, however ; for Koland, bred a page from child- 
hood, knew bow to assume a sullen pettish cast of 
countenance, well enough calculated to hide all 
internal emotions. 

“ I understand thee not, Eoland,” said the 
preacher, “ or rather thou thinkest on this matter 
more deeply than I apprehended to be in thy nature. 
Methought, the delight of going on shore with thy 
bow, or thy gun, or thy angling-rod, would have 
borne away all other feelings.” 

\ “And SO it would,” replied Eoland, who per- 
ceived the danger of suffering Henderson’s half- 
raised suspicions to become fully awake, — “I would 
have thought of nothing but the gun and the oar, 
and the wild water-fowl that tempt me by sailing 
among the sedges yonder so far out of flight-shot, 
had you not spoken of my going on shore as what 
was to occasion burning of town and tower, the 
downfall of the evangele, and the up-setting of the 
mass.” 

“ Follow me, then,” said Henderson, “ and we will 
seek the Lady Lochleven.” 

They found her at breakfast with her grandson 
George Douglas. — “ Peace be with your ladyship ! ” 
said the preacher, bowing to his patroness ; “ Eo- 
land Graeme awaits your order.” 


THE AMOT. 


83 


“ Young man,” said the lady, “ our chaplain hath 
warranted for thy fidelity, and we are determined 
to give you certain errands to do for us in our town 
of Kinross.” 

“ Not by my advice,” said Douglas, coldly. 

“I said not that it was,” answered the lady, 
something sharply. “The mother of thy father 
may, I should think, be old enough to judge for 
herself in a matter so simple. — Thou wilt take the 
skiff, Koland, and two of my people, whom Dry- 
fesdale or Eandal will order out, and fetch off 
certain stuff of plate and hangings, which should 
last night be lodged at Kinross by the wains from 
Edinburgh.” 

“ And give this packet,” said George Douglas, 
“ to a servant of ours, whom you will find in waiting 
there. — It is the report to my father,” he added, 
looking towards his grandmother, w’ho acquiesced 
by bending her head. 

“I have already mentioned to Master Hender- 
son,” said Eoland Graeme, “that as my duty re- 
quires my attendance on the Queen, her Grace’s 
permission for my journey ought to be obtained 
before I can undertake your commission.” 

“ Look to it, my son,” said the old lady, “ the 
scruple of the youth is honourable.” 

“Craving your pardon, madam, I have no wish 
to force myself on her presence thus early,” said 
Douglas, in an indifferent tone ; “ it might displease 
her, and were no way agreeable to me.” 

“ And I,” said the Lady Lochleven, “ although 
her temper hath been more gentle of late, have no 
will to undergo, without necessity, the rancour of 
her wit.” 

“ Under your permission, madam,” said the chap- 


84 


THE. ABBOT. 


lain, I will myself render your request to the 
Queen. During my long residence in this house 
she hath not deigned to see me in private, or to 
hear my doctrine; yet so may Heaven prosper my 
labours, as love for her soul, and desire to bring her 
into the right path, was my chief motive for coming 
hither.’’ 

“Take care. Master Henderson,” said Douglas, 
in a tone which seemed almost sarcastic, “ lest you 
rush hastily on an adventure to which you have no 
vocation — you are learned, and know the adage, 
Ne accesseris in consilium nisi vocatus. — Who hath 
required this at your hand ? ” 

“The Master to whose service I am called,” 
answered the preacher, looking upward, — “ He who 
hath commanded me to be earnest in season and 
out of season.” 

“Your acquaintance hath not been much, I 
think, with courts of princes,” continued the young 
Esquire. 

“Ho, sir,” replied Henderson, “but, like my 
master Knox, I see nothing frightful in the fair 
face of a pretty lady.” 

“ My son,” said the Lady of Lochleven, “ quench 
not the good man’s zeal — let him do the errand to 
this unhappy Princess.” 

“ With more willingness than I would do it 
myself,” said George Douglas. Yet something in 
his manner appeared to contradict his words. 

The minister went accordingly, followed by 
Boland Graeme, and, demanding an audience of the 
imprisoned Princess, was admitted. He found her 
with her ladies engaged in the daily task of embroi- 
dery. The Queen received him with that cour- 
tesy, which, in ordinary cases, she used towards all 


THE ABBOT. 


8S 


who approached her, and the clergyman, in open- 
ing his commission, was obviously somewhat more 
embarrassed than he had expected to be. — “ The 
good Lady of Lochleven — may it please your 
Grace ” 

He made a short pause, during which Mary said, 
with a smile, “ My Grace would, in truth, be well 
pleased, were the Lady Lochleven our good lady 
— but go on — what is the will of the good Lady 
of Lochleven ? ” 

“She desires, madam,” said the chaplain, “that 
your Grace will permit this young gentleman, your 
page, Eoland Graeme, to pass to Kinross, to look af- 
ter some household stuff and hangings, sent hither 
for the better furnishing your Grace’s apartments.” 

“ The Lady of Lochleven,” said the Queen, “ uses 
needless ceremony, in requesting our permission for 
that which stands within her own pleasure. We 
well know that this young gentleman’s attendance 
on us had not been so long permitted, were he not 
thought to be more at the command of that good 
lady than at ours. — But we cheerfully yield consent 
that he shall go on her errand — with our will we 
would doom no living creature to the captivity 
which we ourselves must suffer.” 

“ Ay, madam,” answered the preacher, “ and it is 
doubtless natural for humanity to quarrel with its 
prison-house. Yet there have been those, who have 
found that time spent in the house of temporal cap- 
tivity may be so employed as to redeem us from 
spiritual slavery.” 

“ I apprehend your meaning, sir,” replied the 
Queen, “ but I have heard your apostle — I have 
heard Master John Knox; and were I to be per- 
verted, I would willingly resign to the ablest and 


86 


THE ABBOT. 


most powerful of heresiarchs, the poor honour he 
might acquire by overcoming my faith and my 
hope.” 

“Madam,” said the preacher, “it is not to the 
talents or skill of the husbandman that God gives 
the increase — the words which were offered in vain 
by him whom you justly call our apostle, during 
the bustle and gaiety of a court, may yet find better 
acceptance during the leisure for reflection, which 
this place affords. God knows, lady, that I speak 
in singleness of heart, as one who would as soon 
compare himself to the immortal angels, as to the 
holy man whom you have named. Yet would you 
but condescend to apply to their noblest use, those 
talents and that learning which all allow you to be 
possessed of — would you afford us but the slightest 
hope that you would hear and regard what can be 
urged against the blinded superstition and idolatry 
in wliich ^^ou were brought up, sure am I, that the 
most powerfully gifted of my brethren, that even 
John Knox himself, would hasten hither, and ac- 
count the rescue of your single soul from the nets 
of Eomish error ” 

“ I am obliged to you and to them for their char- 
ity,” said Mary; “but as I have at present but 
one presence-chamber, I would reluctantly see it 
converted into a Huguenot synod.” 

“At least, madam, be not thus obstinately blinded 
in your errors ! Hear one who has hungered and 
thirsted, watched and prayed, to undertake the good 
work of your conversion, and who would be content 
to die the instant that a work so advantageous for 
yourself and so beneficial to Scotland were accom- 
plished — Yes, lady, could I but shake the remaining 
pillar of the heathen temple in this land — and that 


THE ABBOT. 


permit me to term your faith in the delusions of 
Rome — I could be content to die overwhelmed in 
the ruins ! ” 

“ I will not insult your zeal, sir,” replied Mary, 
“ by saying you are more likely to make sport for 
the Philistines than to overwhelm them — your char- 
ity claims my thanks, for it is warmly expressed and 
may be truly purposed — But believe as well of me 
as I am willing to do of you, and think that I may 
be as anxious to recall you to the ancient and only 
road, as you are to teach me your new by-ways to 
paradise.” 

“Then, madam, if such be your generous pur- 
pose,” said Henderson, eagerly, “ what hinders that 
we should dedicate some part of that time, unhap- 
pily now too much at your Grace’s disposal, to dis- 
cuss a question so weighty ? You, by report of all 
men, are both learned and witty; and I, though 
without such advantages, am strong in my cause as 
in a tower of defence. Why should we not spend 
some space in endeavouring to discover which of us 
hath the wrong side in this important matter ? ” 

“Nay,” said Queen Mary, “I never alleged my 
force was strong enough to accept of a combat en 
champ cloSy with a scholar and a polemic. Besides, 
the match is not equal. You, sir, might retire 
when you felt the battle go against you, while I am 
tied to the stake, and have no permission to say the 
debate wearies me. — I would be alone.” 

She curtsied low to him as she uttered these 
words ; and Henderson, whose zeal was indeed ar- 
dent, but did not extend to the neglect of delicacy, 
bowed in return, and prepared to withdraw. 

“ I would,” he said, “ that my earnest wish, my 
most zealous prayer, could procure to your Grace 


88 


THE ABBOT. 


any blessing or comfort, but especially that in which 
alone blessing or comfort is, as easily as the slightest 
intimation of your wish will remove me from your 
presence.” 

He was in the act of departing, when Mary said 
to him with much courtesy, “ Do me no injury in 
your thoughts, good sir ; it may be, that if my time 
here bh protracted longer — as surely I hope it will 
not, trusting that either my rebel subjects will re- 
pent of their disloyalty, or that my faithful lieges 
will obtain the upper hand — but if my time be here 
protracted, it may be I shall have no displeasure in 
hearing one who seems so reasonable and compas- 
sionate as yourself, and I may hazard your contempt 
by endeavouring to recollect and repeat the reasons 
which schoolmen and councils give for the faith that 
is in me, — although I fear that, God help me ! my 
Latin has deserted me with my other possessions. 
This must, however, be for another day. Mean- 
while, sir, let the Lady of Lochleven employ my 
page as she lists — I will not afford suspicion by 
speaking a word to him before he goes. — Koland 
Graeme, my friend, lose not an opportunity of amus- 
ing thyself — dance, sing, run, and leap — all may 
be done merrily on the mainland ; but he must have 
more than quicksilver in his veins who would frolic 
here.” 

“ Alas ! madam,” said the preacher, “ to what is it 
you exhort the youth, while time passes, and eter- 
nity summons ! Can our salvation be ensured by 
idle mirth, or our good work wrought out without 
fear and trembling ? ” 

"I cannot fear or tremble,” replied the Queen; 
“to Mary Stewart such emotions are unknown. 
But, if weeping and sorrow on my part will atone 


THE ABBOT. 89 

for the boy*s enjoying an hour of boyish pleasure, 
be assured the penance shall be duly paid.” 

“Nay, but, gracious lady,” said the preacher, 
“ in this you greatly err ; — our tears and our sor- 
rows are all too little for our own faults and follies, 
nor can we transfer them, as your church falsely 
teaches, to the benefit of others.” 

“May I pray you, sir,” answered the Queen, 
“ with as little offence as such a prayer may import 
to transfer yourself elsewhere ? We are sick at heart, 
and may not now be disturbed with further contro- 
versy — and thou, Koland, take this little purse ; ” 
(then turning to the divine, she said, showing its 
contents,) “ Look, reverend sir, — it contains only 
these two or three gold testoons, a coin which, 
though bearing my own poor features, I have ever 
found more active against me than on my side, just 
as my subjects take arms against me, with my own 
name for their summons and signal. — Take this 
purse that thou mayst want no means of amuse- 
ment. Fail not — fail not to bring me back news 
from Kinross ; only let it be such as, without sus- 
picion or offence, may be told in the presence of 
this reverend gentleman, or of the good Lady Loch- 
leven herself.” 

The last hint was too irresistible to be with- 
stood ; and Henderson withdrew, half mortified, half 
pleased, with his reception; for Mary, from long 
habit, and the address which was natural to her, had 
learned, in an extraordinary degree, -the art of eva- 
ding discourse which was disagreeable to her feel- 
ings or prejudices, without affronting those by whom 
it was proffered. 

Koland Graeme retired with the chaplain, at a 
signal from his lady ; but it did not escape him, that 


90 


THE ABBOT. 


as he left the room, stepping backwards, and making 
the deep obeisance due to royalty, Catherine Seyton 
held up her slender forefinger, with a gesture which 
he alone could witness, and which seemed to say, 
“ Kemember what has passed betwixt us.” 

The young page had now his last charge from the 
Lady of Lochleven. “There are revels,” she said, 
“ this day at the village — my son’s authority is, as 
yet, unable to prevent these continued workings of 
the ancient leaven of folly which the Eomish priests 
have kneaded into the very souls of the Scottish pea- 
santry. I do not command thee to abstain from them 
— that would be only to lay a snare for thy folly, 
or to teach thee falsehood ; but enjoy these vanities 
with moderation, and mark them as something thou 
must soon learn to renounce and contemn. Our 
chamberlain at Kinross, Luke Lundin, — Doctor, as 
he foolishly calleth himself, — will acquaint thee 
what is to be done in the matter about which thou 
goest. Kemember thou art trusted — show thyself, 
therefore, worthy of trust.” 

When we recollect that Koland Graeme was not 
yet nineteen, and that he had spent his whole life 
in the solitary Castle of Avenel, excepting the few 
hours he had passed in Edinburgh, and his late re- 
sidence at Lochleven, (the latter period having very 
little served to enlarge his acquaintance with the gay 
world,) we cannot wonder that his heart beat high 
with hope and curiosity, at the prospect of partak- 
ing the sport even of a country wake. He hastened 
to his little cabin, and turned over the wardrobe 
with which (in every respect becoming his station) 
he had been supplied from Edinburgh, probably by 
order of the Earl of Murray. By the Queen’s com- 
mand he had hitherto waited upon her in mourning, 


THE ABBOT. 


91 


or at least in sad-coloured raiment. Her condition, 
she said, admitted of nothing more gay. But now 
he selected the gayest dress his wardrobe afforded ; 
composed of scarlet, slashed with black satin, the 
royal colours of Scotland — combed his long curled 
hair — disposed his chain and medal round a beaver 
hat of the newest block ; and with the gay falchion, 
which had reached him in so mysterious a manner, 
hung by his side in an embroidered belt, his appa- 
rel, added to his natural frank mien and handsome 
figure, formed a most commendable and pleasing 
specimen of the young gallant of the period. He 
sought to make his parting reverence to the Queen 
and her ladies, but old Dryfesdale hurried him to 
the boat. 

We will have no private audiences,’' he said, 
“ my master ; since you are to be trusted with some- 
what, we will try at least to save thee from the 
temptation of opportunity. God help thee, child,” 
he added, with a glance of contempt at his gay 
clothes, “ an the bear-ward be yonder from Saint 
Andrews, have a care thou go not near him.” 

“And wherefore, I pray you ?” said Eoland. 

“ Lest he take thee for one of his runaway jack- 
anapes,” answered the steward, smiling sourly. 

“ I wear not my clothes at thy cost,” said Eoland, 
indignantly. 

“ Nor at thine own either, my son,” replied the 
steward, “ else would thy garb more nearly re- 
semble thy merit and thy station.” 

Eoland Graeme suppressed with difficulty the 
repartee which arose to his lips, and, wrapping his 
scarlet mantle around him, threw himself into the 
boat, which two rowers, themselves urged by curi- 
osity to see the revels, pulled stoutly towards ‘ the 


92 


THE ABBOT. 


west lad of the lake. As they put off, Eoland 
thought he could discover the face of Catherine Sey- 
ton, though carefully withdrawn from observation, 
peeping from a loophole to view his departure. He 
pulled off his hat, and held it up as a token that he 
saw and wished her adieu. A white kerchief waved 
for a second across the window, and for the rest of 
the little voyage, the thoughts of Catherine Seyton 
disputed ground in his breast with the expectations 
excited by the approaching revel. As they drew 
nearer and nearer the shore, the sounds of mirth 
and music, the laugh, the halloo, and the shout, 
came thicker upon the ear, and in a trice the boat 
was moored, and Eoland Graeme hastened in quest 
of the chamberlain, that, being informed what time 
he bad at his own disposal, he might lay it out to 
the best advantage. 


V 


CHAPTER VL 


Room for the master of the ring, ye swains, 

Divide your crowded ranks — before him march 
The rural minstrelsy, the rattling drum. 

The clamorous war-pipe, and far-echoing horn. 

Rural Sports. — Somerville. 


No long space intervened ere Eoland Graeme was able 
to discover among the crowd of revellers, who gam- 
bolled upon the open space which extends betwixt 
the village and the lake, a person of so great im- 
portance as Doctor Luke Lundin, upon whom de- 
volved officially the charge of representing the lord 
of the land, and who was attended for support of 
his authority by a piper, a drummer, and four sturdy 
clowns armed with rusty halberds, garnished with 
party-coloured ribands; myrmidons, who, early as 
the day was, had already broken more than one head 
in the awful names of the Laird of Lochleven and his 
chamberlain.^ 

1 At Scottish fairs, the bailie, or magistrate, deputed by the lord 
in whose name the meeting is held, attends the fair with his guard, 
decides trifling disputes, and punishes on the spot any petty delin- 
quencies. His attendants are usually armed with halberds, and, 
sometimes at least, escorted by music. Thus, in the “ Life and 
Death of Habbie Simpson,” we are told of that famous minstrel, — 

“ At fairs he play’d before the spear-men. 

And gaily graithed in their gear-men ; — 

Steel bonnets, jacks, and swords shone clear then, 

Like ony bead ; 

Now wha shall play before sic weir-men, 

Since Habbie’s dead ? " 


94 


THE ABBOT. 


As soon as this dignitary was informed that the 
castle skiff had arrived, with a gallant, dressed like a 
lord’s son at the least, who desired presently to speak 
to him, he adjusted his ruff and his black coat, turned 
round his girdle till the garnished hilt of his long 
rapier became visible, and walked with due solemnity 
towards the beach. Solemn indeed he was entitled 
to be, even on less important occasions, for he had 
been bred to the venerable Study of medicine, as 
those acquainted with the science very soon discov- 
ered from the aphorisms which ornamented his 
discourse. His success had not been equal to his pre- 
tensions ; but as he was a native of the neighbouring 
Kingdom of Fife, and bore distant relation to, or de- 
pendence upon, the ancient family of Lundin of that 
Ilk, who were bound in close friendship with the 
house of Lochleven, he had, through their interest, 
got planted comfortably enough in his present station 
upon the banks of that beautiful lake. The profits 
of his chamherlainship being moderate, especially in 
those unsettled times, he had eked it out a little with 
some practice in his original profession ; and it was 
said that the inhabitants of the village and barony of 
Kinross were not more effectually thirled (which may 
be translated enthralled) to the baron’s mill, than 
they were to the medical monopoly of the chamber- 
lain. Woe betide the family of the rich boor, who 
presumed to depart this life without a passport from 
Dr. Luke Lundin ! for if his representatives had aught 
to settle with the baron, as it seldom happened other- 
wise, they were sure to find a cold friend in the 
chamberlain. He was considerate enough, however, 
gratuitously to help the poor out of their ailments, 
and sometimes out of all their other distresses at the 
same time. 


THE ABBOT. 


95 


Formal, in a double proportion, both as a physician 
and as a person in office, and proud of the scraps of 
learning which rendered his language almost uni- 
versally unintelligible. Dr. Luke Lundin approached 
the beach, and hailed the page as he advanced to- 
wards him. — “ The freshness of the morning upon 
you, fair sir — You are sent, I warrant me, to see if 
we observe here the regimen which her good ladyship 
hath prescribed, for eschewing all superstitious cere- 
monies and idle anilities in these our revels. I am 
aware that her good ladyship would willingly have 
altogether abolished and abrogated them — But as I 
had the honour to quote to her from the works of the 
learned Hercules of Saxony, omnis curatio est vel can^ 
onica ml coacta, — that is, fair sir, (for silk and vel- 
vet have seldom their Latin ad unguem,') every cure 
must be wrought either by art and induction of rule, 
or by constraint ; and the wise physician chooseth 
the former. Which argument her ladyship being 
pleased to allow well of, I have made it my business 
so to blend instruction and caution with delight, 
mixtioy as we say,) that I can answer that the vulgar 
mind will be defecated and purged of anile and popish 
fooleries by the medicament adhibited, so that the 
frimoe vice being cleansed. Master Henderson, or any 
other able pastor, may at will throw in tonics, and 
effectuate a perfect moral cure, into, cito, jucunde!* 

“ I have no charge. Doctor Lundin,” replied the 
page 

“ Call me not doctor,” said the chamberlain, “ since 
I have laid aside my furred gown and bonnet, and 
retired me into this temporality of chamberlainship.” 

“ 0, sir,” said the page, who was no stranger by 
report to the character of this original, “ the cowl 
makes not the monk, neither the cord the friar — 


96 


THE ABBOT. 


we have all heard of the cures wrought by Doctor 
Lundin.” 

“ Toys, young sir — trifles,” answered the leech, 
with grave disclamation of superior skill ; “ the hit- 
or-miss practice of a poor retired gentleman, in a 
short cloak and doublet — Marry, Heaven sent its 
blessing — and this I must say, better fashioned me- 
diciners have brought fewer patients through — 
lung a r6ha cdrta scienzia^ saith the Italian — ha, fair 
sir, you have the language ? ” 

Koland Grseme did not think it necessary to ex- 
pound to this learned Theban whether he under- 
stood him or no ; but, leaving that matter uncertain, 
he told him he came in quest of certain packages 
which should have arrived at Kinross, and been 
placed under the chamberlain’s charge the evening 
before. 

“ Body o’ me ! ” said Doctor Lundin, “ I fear our 
common carrier, John Auchtermuchty, hath met with 
some mischance, that he came not up last night with 
his wains — bad land this to journey in, my mas- 
ter ; and the fool will travel by night too, although 
(besides all maladies, from your tussis to your pestis, 
which walk abroad in the night-air) he may well fall 
in with half a dozen swash-bucklers, who will ease 
him at once of his baggage and his earthly com- 
plaints. I must send forth to enquire after him, 
since he hath stuff of the honourable household on 
hand — and, by Our Lady, he hath stuff of mine too 
■ — certain drugs sent me from the city for composi- 
tion of my alexipharmics — this gear must be looked 
to. — Hodge,” said he, addressing one of his re- 
doubted body-guard, “ do thou and Toby Telford 
take the mickle brown aver and the black cut-tailed 
mare, and make out towards the Keiry-craigs, and 


THE ABBOT. 


97 


see what tidings you can have of Auchtermuchty 
and his wains — I trust it is only the medicine 
of the pottle-pot (being the only medicamentum 
which the beast useth) which hath caused him to 
tarry on the road. Take the ribands from your 
halberds, ye knaves, and get on your jacks, plate- 
sleeves, and knapskulls, that your presence may 
work some terror if you meet with opposers.” He 
then added, turning to Eoland Grseme, “ I warrant 
me we shall have news of the wains in brief season. 
Meantime it will please you to look upon the sports ; 
but first to enter my poor lodging and take your 
morning’s cup. For what saith the school of Salerno ? 

* Poculum, mane haustum, 

Kestaurat naturam exhaustam.* ” 

“ Your learning is too profound for me,” replied 
the page ; “ and so would your draught be likewise, 
I fear.” 

“ Not a whit, fair sir — a cordial cup of sack, im- 
pregnated with wormwood, is the best anti-pesti- 
lential draught ; and, to speak truth, the pestilential 
miasmata are now very rife in the atmosphere. — 
We live in a happy time, young man,” continued 
he, in a tone of grave irony, “ and have many bless- 
ings unknown to our fathers — Here are two sove- 
reigns in the land, a regnant and a claimant — that 
is enough of one gobd thing — but if any one wants 
more, he may find a king in every peelhouse in the 
country; so if we lack government, it is not for 
want of governors. Then have we a civil war to 
phlebotomize us every year, and to prevent our 
population from starving for want of food — and for 
the same purpose, we have the Plague proposing us 
a visit, the best of all recipes for thinning a land. 

VOL. II. — 7 


THE ABBOT. 


98 

and converting younger brothers into elder ones. 
Well, each man in his vocation. You young fel- 
lows of the sword desire to wrestle, fence, or so 
forth, with some expert adversary ; and for my part, 
I love to match myself for life or death against that 
same Plague.” 

As they proceeded up the street of the little 
village towards the Doctor’s lodgings, his attention 
was successively occupied by the various personages 
whom he met, and pointed out to the notice of his 
companion. 

“Do you see that fellow with the red bonnet, 
the blue jerkin, and the great rough baton in his 
hand ? — I believe that clown hath the strength of 
a tower — he has lived fifty years in the world, and 
never encouraged the liberal sciences by buying one 
pennyworth of medicaments. — But see you that man 
with the facies Hippocratica .? ” said he, pointing out 
a thin peasant, with swelled legs, and a most cada- 
verous countenance ; “ that I call one of the wor- 
thiest men in the barony — he breakfasts, luncheons, 
dines, and sups by my advice, and not without my 
medicine ; and, for his own single part, will go far- 
ther to clear out a moderate stock of pharmaceutics,, 
than half the country besides. — How do you, my 
honest friend ? ” said he to the party in question, 
with a tone of condolence. 

“Very weakly, sir, since I took the electuary,” 
answered the patient ; “ it neighboured ill with the 
two spoonfuls of pease-porridge and the kirnmilk.” 

“ Pease-porridge and kirnmilk ! Have you been 
under medicine these ten years, and keep your diet 
so ill ? — the next morning take the electuary by 
itself, and touch nothing for six hours.” — The poor 
object bowed, and limped off. 


THE ABBOT. 


99 


The next whom the Doctor deigned to take notice 
of, was a lame fellow, by whom the honour was alto- 
gether undeserved, for at sight of the mediciner, he 
began to shuffle away in the crowd as fast as his 
infirmities would permit. 

“There is an ungrateful hound for you,” said 
Doctor Lundin ; “ I cured him of the gout in his 
feet, and now he talks of the chargeableness of medi- 
cine, and makes the first use of his restored legs to 
fly from his physician. His podagra hath become 
a ckiragra, as honest Martial hath it — the gout has 
got into his fingers, and he cannot draw ^his purse. 
Old saying, and true, 

‘ Prsemia cum poscit medicus, Sathan est.’ 

We are angels when we come to cure — devils when 
we ask payment — but I will administer a purgation 
to his purse, I warrant him. There is his brother 
too, a sordid chuff. — So ho, there ! Saunders Darlet ! 
you have been ill, I hear ? ” 

“ Just got the turn, as I was thinking to send to 
your honour, and I am brawly now again — it was 
nae great thing that ailed me.” 

“Hark you, sirrah,” said the Doctor, “ I trust 
you remember you are owing to the laird four stones 
of barley meal, and a bow of oats ; and I would 
have you send no more such kain-fowls as you sent 
last season, that looked as wretchedly as patients 
just dismissed from a plague-hospital ; and there is 
hard money owing besides.” 

I was thinking, sir,” said the man, raore Scotico, 
that is, returning no direct answer on the subject 
on which he was addressed, “ my best way would 
be to come down to your honour, and take your 
advice yet, in case my trouble should come back. 


THE ABBOT. 


100 

“Do so then, knave,” replied Lundin, “and re- 
member what Ecclesiasticus saith — ' Give place to 
the physician — let him not go from thee, for thou 
hast need of him.’ ” 

His exhortation was interrupted by an apparition, 
which seemed to strike the Doctor with as much hor- 
ror and surprise, as his own visage inflicted upon 
sundry of those persons whom he had addressed. 

The flgure which produced this effect on the Es- 
culapius of the village, was that of a tall old woman, 
who wore a high-crowned hat and muffler. The 
flrst of these habiliments added .apparently to her 
stature, and the other served to conceal the lower 
part of her face, and as the hat itself was slouched, 
little could be seen besides two brown cheek-bones, 
and the eyes of swarthy fire, that gleamed from 
under two shaggy grey eyebrows. She was dressed 
in a long dark-coloured robe of unusual fashion, 
bordered at the skirts, and on the stomacher, with 
a sort of white trimming resembling the Jewish 
phylacteries, on which were wrought the characters 
of some unknown language. She held in her hand 
a walking-staff of black ebony. 

“ By the soul of Celsus,” said Doctor Luke Lun- 
din, “ it is old Mother Nicneven herself — she hath 
come to beard me within mine own bounds, and in 
the very execution of mine office ! Have at thy 
coat. Old Woman, as the song says — Hob Anster, 
let her presently be seized and committed to the 
tolbooth ; and if there are any zealous brethren here 
who would give the hag her deserts, and duck her, 
as a witch, in the loch, I pray let them in no way 
be hindered.” 

But the myrmidons of Doctor Lundin showed in 
this case no alacrity to do his bidding. Hob Anster 


THE ABBOT. 


loi 


even ventured to remonstrate in the name of him- 
self and his brethren. “To be sure he was to do 
his honour’s bidding; and for a’ that folk said about 
the skill and witcheries of Mother Nicneven, he 
would put his trust in God, and his hand on her 
collar, without dreadour. But she was no common 
spaewife, this Mother Nicneven, like Jean Jopp that 
lived in the Brierie-baulk. She had lords and lairds 
that would ruffle for her. There was Moncrieff of 
Tippermalloch, that was popish, and the laird of 
Carslogie, a kend Queen’s man, were in the fair, 
with wha kend how mony swords and bucklers at 
their back ; and they would be sure to make a break- 
out if the offlcers meddled with the auld popish 
witch-wife, who was sae weel friended; mair espe- 
cially as the laird’s best men, such as were not in 
the castle, were in Edinburgh with him, and he 
doubted his honour the Doctor would find ower few 
to make a good backing, if blades were bare.” 

The Doctor listened unwillingly to this pruden- 
tial counsel, and was only comforted by the faith- 
ful promise of his satellite, that “the old woman 
should,” as he expressed it, “be ta’en canny the 
next time she trespassed on the bounds.” 

“And in that event,” said the Doctor to his com- 
panion, “fire and fagot shall be the best of her 
welcome.” 

This he spoke in hearing of the dame herself, who 
even then, and in passing the Doctor, shot towards 
him from under her grey eyebrows a look of the most 
insulting and contemptuous superiority. 

“ This way,” continued the physician, “ this way,” 
marshalling his guest into his lodging, — “ take care 
you stumble not over a retort, for it is hazardous for 
the ignorant to walk in the ways of art.” 


102 


THE ABBOT. 


The page found all reason for the caution; for 
besides stuffed birds, and lizards, and bottled 
snakes, and bundles of simples made up, and other 
parcels spread out to dry, and all the confusion, 
not to mention the mingled and sickening smells, 
incidental to a druggist’s stock in trade, he had 
also to avoid heaps of charcoal, crucibles, bolt- 
heads, stoves, and the other furniture of a chemi- 
cal laboratory. 

Amongst his other philosophical qualities, Doctor 
Lundin failed not to be a confused sloven, and his 
old housekeeper, whose life, as she said, was spent 
in “ redding him up, ” had trotted off to the mart 
of gaiety with other and younger folks. Much 
clattering and jangling therefore there was among 
jars, and bottled, and phials, ere the Doctor pro- 
duced the salutiferous potion which he recom- 
mended so strongly, and a search equally long and 
noisy followed, among broken cans and cracked 
pipkins, ere he could bring forth a cup out of 
which to drink it. Both matters being at length 
achieved, the Doctor set the example to his guest, 
by quaffing off a cup of the cordial, and smacking 
his lips with approbation as it descended his gul- 
let. — Eoland, in turn, submitted to swallow the 
potion which his host so earnestly recommended, 
but which he found so insufferably bitter, that he 
became eager to escape from the laboratory in 
search of a draught of fair water to expel the 
taste. In spite of his efforts, he w'as nevertheless 
detained by the garrulity of his host, till he gave 
him some account of Mother Nicneven. 

“ I care not to speak of her, ” said the Doctor, 
“ in the open air, and among the throng of people ; 
not for fright, like yon cowardly dog, Anster, but 


THE ABBOT. 


103 


because I would give no occasion for a fray, having 
no leisure to look to stabs, slashes, and broken 
bones. Men call the old hag a prophetess — I do 
scarce believe she could foretell when a brood of 
chickens will chip the shell — Men say she reads 
the heavens — my black bitch knows as much of 
them when she sits baying the moon — Men pre- 
tend the ancient wretch is a sorceress, a witch, 
and what not — Inter nos, I will never contradict 
a rumour which may bring her to the stake which 
she so richly deserves ; but neither will I believe 
that the tales of witches which they din into our 
ears are aught but knavery, cozenage, and old 
women’s fables.” 

" In the name of Heaven, what is she then, ” 
said the page, “ that you make such a stir about 
her?” 

“ She is one of those cursed old women, ” replied 
the Doctor, " who take currently and impudently 
upon themselves to act as advisers and curers of 
the sick, on the strength of some trash of herbs,, 
some rhyme of spells, some julap or diet, drink or 
cordial. ” 

“ Nay, go no farther, ” said the page ; “ if they 
brew cordials, evil be their lot and all their 
partakers ! ” 

“ You say well, young man, ” said Doctor Lun- 
din ; “ for mine own part, I know no such pests to 
the commonwealth as these old incarnate devils, 
who haunt the chambers of the brain-sick patients, 
that are mad enough to suffer them to interfere 
with, disturb, and let, the regular progress of a 
learned and artificial cure, with their sirups, and 
their julaps, and diascordium, and mithridate, and 
my Lady What-shall-call ’urn’s powder, and worthy 


104 


THE ABBOT. 


Dame Trashem’s pill; and thus make widows and 
orphans, and cheat the regular and well-studied 
physician, in order to get the name of wise women 
and skeely neighbours, and so forth. But no more 
on’t — Mother Nicneven^ and I will meet one day; 
and she shall know there is danger in dealing with 
the doctor. ” 

“ It is a true word, and many have found it, ” 
said the page ; " but, under your favour, I would 
fain walk abroad for a little, and see these sports. ” 

“ It is well moved, ” said the Doctor, “ and I too 
should be showing myself abroad. Moreover, the 
play waits us, young man — to-day, totus mundus 
agit liistrionem. ” — And they sallied forth accord- 
ingly into the mirthful scene. 

1 This was the name given to the grand Mother Witch, the very 
Hecate of Scottish popular superstition. Her name was bestowed, 
in one or two instances, upon sorceresses, who were held to resemble 
her by their superior skill in “ Hell’s black grammar.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


See on yon verdant lawn, the gathering crowd 
Thickens amain ; the buxom nymphs advance, 
Usher’d by jolly clowns ; distinctions cease, 
Lost in the common joy, and the bold slave 
Leans on his wealthy master unreproved. 


Rural Sports. — Somebvillb 


The re-appearance of the dignified Chamberlain on 
the street of the village was eagerly hailed by the 
revellers, as a pledge that the play, or dramatic 
representation, which had been postponed owing to 
his absence, was now full surely to commence. 
Any thing like an approach to this most interest- 
ing of all amusements, was of recent origin in 
Scotland, and engaged public attention in propor- 
tion. All other sports were discontinued. The 
dance around the Maypole was arrested — the ring 
broken up and dispersed, while the dancers, each 
leading his partner by. the hand, tripped off to the 
silvan theatre. A truce was in like manner achieved 
betwixt a huge brown bear and certain mastiffs, 
who were tugging and pulling at his shaggy coat, 
under the mediation of the bear-ward and half a 
dozen butchers and yeomen, who, by dint of stav- 
ing and tailing, as it was technically termed, 
separated the unfortunate animals, whose fury had 
for an hour past been their chief amusement. The 
itinerant minstrel found himself deserted by the 
audience he had collected, even in the most inter- 
esting passage of the romance which he recited^ 



io6 


THE ABBOT. 


and just as lie was sending about his boy, with 
bonnet in hand, to collect their oblations. He 
indignantly stopped short in the midst of Eosewal 
and Lilian, and, replacing his three-stringed fiddle, 
or rebeck, in its leathern case, followed the crowd, 
with no good-will, to the exhibition which had 
superseded his own. The juggler had ceased his 
exertions of emitting flame and smoke, and was 
content to respire in the manner of ordinary mor- 
tals, rather than to play gratuitously the part of a 
fiery dragon. In short, all other sports were sus- 
pended, so eagerly did the revellers throng towards 
the place of representation. 

They would err greatly, who should regulate 
their ideas of this dramatic exhibition upon those 
derived from a modern theatre ; for the rude shows 
of Thespis were far less different from those ex- 
hibited by Euripides on the stage of Athens, with 
all its magnificent decorations and pomp of dresses 
and of scenery. In the present case, there were 
no scenes, no stage, no machinery, no pit, box, 
and gallery, no box-lobby ; and, what might in 
poor Scotland be some consolation for other nega- 
tions, there was no taking • of money at the door. 
As in the devices of the magnanimous Bottom, the 
actors had a greensward plot for a stage, and a 
hawthorn bush for a greenroom and tiring-house ; 
the spectators being accommodated with seats on 
the artificial bank which had been raised around 
three-fourths of the playground, the remainder be- 
ing left open for the entrance and exit of the per- 
formers. Here sate the uncritical audience, the 
Chamberlain in the centre, as the person highest in 
office, all alive to enjoyment and admiration, and 
all therefore dead to criticism. 


THE ABBOT. 


107 


The characters which appeared and disappeared 
before the amused and interested audience, were 
those which filj? the earlier stage in all nations — 
old men, cheated by their wives and daughters, 
pillaged by their sons, and imposed on by their 
domestics, a braggadocio captain, a knavish par- 
doner or quaestionary, a country bumpkin, and a 
wanton city-dame. Amid all these, and more ac- 
ceptable than almost the whole put together, was 
the all-licensed fool, the Gracioso of the Spanish 
Drama, who, with his cap fashioned into the re- 
semblance of a coxcomb, and his bauble, a trun- 
cheon terminated by a carved figure, wearing a 
fool’s cap in his hand, went, came, and returned, 
mingling in every scene of the piece, and inter- 
rupting the business, without having any share 
himself in the action, and ever and anon transfer- 
ring his gibes from the actors on the stage to the 
audience who sate around, prompt to applaud the 
whole. 

The wit of the piece, which was not of the most 
polished kind, was chiefly directed against the 
superstitious practices of the Catholic religion ; 
and the stage artillery had on this occasion been 
levelled by no less a person than Doctor Lundin, 
who had not only commanded the manager of the 
entertainment to select one of the numerous satires 
which had been written against the Papists, (sev- 
eral of which were cast in a dramatic form,) but 
had even, like the Prince of Denmark, caused them 
to insert, or, according to his own phrase, to in- 
fuse, here and there, a few pleasantries of his own 
penning, on the same inexhaustible subject, hop- 
ing thereby to mollify the rigour of the Lady of 
Lochleven towards pastimes of this description. 


io8 


THE ABBOT. 


He failed not to jog Boland’s elbow, who was sit- 
ting in state behind him, and recommend to his 
particular attention those favouritJe passages. As 
for the page, to whom the very idea of such an 
exhibition, simple as it was, was entirely new, he 
beheld it with the undiminished and ecstatic de- 
light with which men of all ranks look for the first 
time on dramatic representation, and laughed, 
shouted, and clapped his hands as the performance 
proceeded. An incident at length took place which 
effectually broke off his interest in the business of 
the scene. 

One of the principal personages in the comic part 
of the drama was, as we have already said, a quses- 
tionary or pardoner, one of those itinerants who 
hawked about from place to place relics, real or 
pretended, with which he excited the devotion at 
once and the charity of the populace, and generally 
deceived both the one and the other. The hypoc- 
risy, impudence, and profligacy of these clerical 
wanderers, had made them the subject of satire 
from the time of Chaucer down to that of Hey wood. 
Their present representative failed not to follow 
the same line of humour, exhibiting pig’s bones for 
relics, and boasting the virtues of small tin crosses, 
which had been shaken in the holy porringer at 
Loretto, and of cockleshells, which had been 
brought from the shrine of Saint James of Com- 
postella, all which he disposed of to the devout 
Catholics at nearly as high a price as antiquaries 
are now willing to pay for baubles of similar in- 
trinsic value. At length the pardoner pulled from 
his scrip a small phial of clear water, of which he 
vaunted the quality in the following verses : 


THE ABBOT. 


109 


Liatneth, gode people, everiche one, 

For in the londe of Babylone, 

Far eastward I wot it lyeth, 

And is the first londe* the sonne espieth, 

Ther, as he cometh fro out the se ; 

In this ilk londe, as thinketh me. 

Right as holie legendes tell, 

Snottreth from a roke a well, 

And falleth into ane bath of ston, 

Wher chast Susanne, in times long gon. 

Was wont to wash her bodie and lim — 

Mickle vertue hath that streme, 

As ye shall se er that ye pas, 

Ensample by this little glas — 

Through nightds cold and dayes hote, 

Hiderward I have, it brought ; 

Hath a wife made slip or slide, 

Or a maiden stepp’d aside ; 

Putteth this water under her nese, 

Wold she nold she, she shall snese. 

The jest, as the reader skilful in the antique lan- 
guage of the drama must at once perceive, turned 
on the same pivot as in the old minstrel tales 
of the Drinking Horn of King Arthur, and the 
Mantle made Amiss. But the audience were 
neither learned nor critical enough to challenge its 
want of originality. The potent relic was, after 
such grimace and buffoonery as befitted the subject, 
presented successively to each of the female person- 
ages of the drama, not one of whom sustained the 
supposed test of discretion ; but, to the infinite de- 
light of the audience, sneezed much louder and 
longer than perhaps they themselves had counted on. 
The jest seemed at last worn threadbare, and the 
pardoner was passing on to some new pleasantry, 
when the jester or clown of the drama, possessing 
himself secretly of the phial which contained the 
wondrous liquor, applied it suddenly to the nose 


no 


THE ABBOT. 


of a young woman, who, with her black silk muffler, 
or screen, drawn over her face, was sitting in the 
foremost rank of the spectators, intent apparently 
upon the business of the stage. The contents pf the 
phial, well calculated to sustain the credit of the 
pardoner’s legend, set the damsel a-sneezing vio- 
lently, an admission of frailty which was received 
with shouts of rapture by the audience. These 
were soon, however, renewed at the expense of the 
jester himself, when the insulted maiden extri- 
cated, ere the paroxysm was well over, one hand 
from the folds of her mantle, and bestowed on the 
wag a buffet, which made him reel fully his own 
length from the pardoner, and then acknowledge 
the favour by instant prostration. 

No one pities a jester overcome in his vocation, 
and the clown met with little sympathy, when, 
rising from the ground, and whimpering forth his 
complaints of harsh treatment, he invoked the as- 
sistance and sympathy of the audience. But the 
Chamberlain, feeling his own dignity insulted, or- 
dered two of his halberdiers to bring the culprit 
before him. When these official persons first ap- 
proached the virago, she threw herself into an 
attitude of firm defiance, as if determined to resist 
their authority ; and from the sample of strength 
and spirit which she had already displayed, they 
showed no alacrity at executing their commission. 
But on half a minute’s reflection, the damsel 
changed totally her attitude and manner, folded 
her cloak around her arms in modest and maiden- 
like fashion, and walked of her own accord to the 
presence of the great man, followed and guarded 
by the two manful satellites. As she moved across 
the vacant space, and more especially as she stood 


THE ABBOT. 


HI 


at the footstool of the Doctor’s judgment-seat, the 
maiden discovered that hghtness and elasticity of 
step, and natural grace of manner, which connois- 
seurs in female beauty know to be seldom divided 
from it. Moreover, her neat russet-coloured jacket, 
and short petticoat of the same colour, displayed a 
handsome form and a pretty leg. Her features 
were concealed by the screen ; but the Doctor, 
whose gravity did not prevent his pretensions to 
be a connoisseur of the school we have hinted at, 
saw enough to judge favourably of the piece by the 
sample. 

He began, however, with considerable austerity 
of manner. — "And how now, saucy quean!” said 
the medical man of office ; " what have you to say 
why I should not order you to be ducked in the 
Ipch, for lifting your hand to the man in my 
presence ? ” 

"Marry,” replied the culprit, "because I judge 
that your honour will not think the cold bath nec- 
essary for my complaints.” 

"A pestilent jade,” said the Doctor, whispering 
to Eoland Graeme ; " and I’ll warrant her a good 
one ’ — her voice is as sweet as sirup. — But, my 
pretty maiden,” said he, "you show us wonderful 
little of that countenance of yours — be pleased to 
throw aside your muffler.” 

" I trust your honour will excuse me till we are 
more private,” answered the maiden; "for I have 
acquaintance, and I should hke ill to be known in 
the country as the poor girl whom that scurvy 
knave put his jest upon.” 

"Fear nothing for thy good name, my sweet 
little modicum of candied manna!” replied the 
Doctor ; " for I protest to you, as I am Chamberlain 


II2 


THE ABBOT. 


of Lochleven, Kinross, and so forth, that the chaste 
Susanna herself could not have snuffed that elixir 
without sternutation, being in truth a curious dis- 
tillation of rectified acetumy or vinegar of the sun, 
prepared by mine own hands — Wherefore, as thou 
sayest thou wilt come to me in private, and ex- 
press thy contrition for the offence whereof thou 
hast been guilty, I command that all for the pres- 
ent go forward as if no such interruption of the 
prescribed course had taken place. ” 

The damsel curtsied and tripped back to her 
place. The play proceeded, but it no longer at- 
tracted the attention of Roland Graeme. 

The voice, the figure, and what the veil per- 
mitted to be seen of the neck and tresses of the 
village damsel, bore so strong a resemblance to 
those of Catherine Seyton, that he felt like one 
bewildered in the mazes of a changeful and stupify- 
ing dream. The memorable scene of the hostelry 
rushed on his recollection, with all its doubtful 
and marvellous circumstances. Were the tales of 
enchantment which he had read in romances real- 
ized in this extraordinary girl ? Could she trans- 
port herself from the walled and guarded Castle of 
Lochleven, moated with its broad lake, (towards 
which he cast back a look as if to ascertain it was 
still in existence,) and watched with such scrupu- 
lous care as the safety of a nation demanded — 
Could she surmount all these obstacles, and make 
such careless and dangerous use of her liberty, as 
to engage herself publicly in a quarrel in a village 
fair? Roland was unable to determine whether 
the exertions which it must have cost her to gain 
her freedom, or the use to which she had put it, 
rendered her the most unaccountable creature. 


THE ABBOT. 


"3 


Lost in these meditations, he kept his gaze fixed 
on the subject of them ; and in every casual mo- 
tion, discovered, or thought he discovered, some- 
thing which reminded him still more strongly of 
Catherine Seyton. It occurred to him more than 
once, indeed, that he might be deceiving himself 
by exaggerating some casual likeness into absolute 
identity. But then the meeting at the hostelry 
of Saint Michael’s returned to his mind, and it 
seemed in the highest degree improbable, that, un- 
der such various circumstances, mere imagination 
should twice have found opportunity to play him 
the self-same trick. This time, however, he deter- 
mined to have his doubts resolved, and for this 
purpose he sate during the rest of the play like 
a greyhound in the slip, ready to spring upon the 
hare the instant that she was started. The dam- 
sel, whom he watched attentively lest she should 
escape in the crowd when the spectacle was closed, 
sate as if perfectly unconscious that she was ob- 
served. But the worthy Doctor marked the direc- 
tion of his eyes, and magnanimously suppressed 
his own inclination to become the Theseus to this 
Hippolyta, in deference to the rights of hospi- 
tality, which enjoined him to forbear interference 
with the pleasurable pursuits of his young friend. 
He passed one or two formal gibes upon the fixed 
attention which the page paid to the unknown, 
and upon his own jealousy ; adding, however, that 
if both were to be presented to the patient at 
once, he had little doubt she would think the 
younger man the sounder prescription. “ I fear 
me, ” he added, “ we shall have no news of the 
knave Auchtermuchty for some time, since the ver- 
min whom I sent after him seem to have proved 

VOL. ij. — 8 


14 


THE ABBOT. 


corbie -messengers. So you have an hour or two on 
your hands, Master Page ; and as the minstrels are 
beginning to strike up, now that the play is ended, 
why, an you incline for a dance, yonder is the 
green, and there sits your partner — I trust you 
will hold me perfect in my diagnostics, since I see 
with half an eye what disease you are sick of, and 
have administered a pleasing remedy. 

^Discernit sapiens res’ (as Chambers hath it) ‘ quas confundit 

asellus,’ ” 

The page hardly heard the end of the learned 
adage, or the charge which the Chamberlain gave 
him to be within reach, in case of the wains arriv- 
ing suddenly, and sooner than expected — so eager 
was he at once to shake himself free of his learned 
associate, and to satisfy his curiosity regarding the 
unknown damsel. Yet in the haste with which he 
made towards her, he found time to reflect, that, 
in order to secure an opportunity of conversing 
with her in private, he must not alarm her at first 
accosting her. He therefore composed his manner 
and gait, and advancing with becoming self-confi- 
dence before three or four country-fellows who 
were intent on the same design, but knew not so 
well how to put their request into shape, he ac- 
quainted her that he, as the deputy of the vener- 
able Chamberlain, requested the honour of her hand 
as a partner. 

The venerable Chamberlain, ” said the damsel 
frankly, reaching the page her hand, “ does very 
well to exercise this part of his privilege by de- 
puty ; and I suppose the laws of the revels leave 
me no choice but to accept of his faithful delegate. ” 

“ Provided, fair damsel, ” said the page, “ his 


THE ABBOT. 


115 

choice of a delegate is not altogether distasteful to 
you. ” 

" Of that, fair sir, ” replied the maiden," I will tell 
you more when we have danced the first measure. ” 
Catherine Seyton had admirable skill in gestic 
lore, and was sometimes called on to dance for the 
amusement of her royal mistress. Eoland Graeme 
had often been a spectator of her skill, and some- 
times, at the Queen’s command, Catherine’s part- 
ner on such occasions. He was, therefore, perfectly 
acquainted with Catherine’s mode of dancing; and 
observed that his present partner, in grace, in agil- 
ity, in quickness of ear, and precision of execution, 
exactly resembled her, save that the Scottish jig, 
which he now danced with her, required a more 
violent and rapid motion, and more rustic agility, 
than the stately pavens, lavoltas, and courantoes, 
which he had seen her execute in the chamber of 
Queen Mary. The active duties of the dance left 
him little time for reflection, and none for conver- 
sation ; but when their pas de deux was finished, 
amidst the acclamations of the villagers, who had 
seldom witnessed such an exhibition, he took an 
opportunity, when they yielded up the green to 
another couple, to use the privilege of a partner, 
and enter into conversation with the mysterious 
maiden whom he still held by the hand. 

" Fair partner, may I not crave the name of her 
^ho has graced me thus far ? ” 

“ You may, ” said the maiden ; " but it is a ques- 
tion whether I shall answer you. ” 

" And why ? ” asked Eoland. 

" Because nobody gives any thing for nothing — 
and you can toH me nothing in return which I care 
to hear. ” 


THE ABBOT. 


ii6 

“ Could I not tell you my name and lineage, in 
exchange for yours ? ” returned Eoland. 

“ No ! ” answered the maiden, “ for you know 
little of either. ” 

“ How ? ” said the page, somewhat angrily. 

" Wrath you not for the matter, ” said the damsel ; 
“ I will show you in an instant that I know more 
of you than you do of yourself. ” 

“ Indeed ! ” answered Graeme ; “ for whom then 
do you take me ? ” 

“ For the wild falcon, ” answered she, “ whom 
a dog brought in his mouth to a certain castle, 
when he was but an unfledged eyas — for the hawk 
whom men dare not let fly, lest he should check at 
game, and pounce on carrion — whom folk must 
keep hooded till he has the proper light of his 
eyes, and can discover good from evil. ” 

“ Well — be it so, ” replied Eoland Graeme ; “ I 
guess at a part of your parable, fair mistress mine 
— and perhaps I know as much of you as you do 
of me, and can well dispense with the information 
which you are so niggard in giving. ” 

“ Prove that, ” said the maiden, “ and I will give 
you credit for more penetration than I judged you • 
to be gifted withal. ” 

" It shall be proved instantly, ” said Eoland 
Grseme. “ The fi[rst letter of your name is S, and 
the last N. ” 

“ Admirable ! ” said his partner ; " guess on. ” 

“ It pleases you to-day, ” continued Eoland, " to 
wear the snood and kirtle, and perhaps you may be 
seen to-morrow in hat and feather, hose and doublet. ” 

“ In the clout ! in the clout ! you have hit the 
very white,” said the damsel, suppressing a great 
inclination to laugh. 


THE ABBOT. 


117 


" You can switch men’s eyes out of tbeir heads, 
as well as the hearts out of their bosoms. ” ^ 

These last words were uttered in a low and ten- 
der tone, which, to Eoland’s great mortification, and 
somewhat to his displeasure, was so far from allay- 
ing, that it greatly increased, his partner’s disposi- 
tion to laughter. She could scarce compose herself 
while she replied, “ If you had thought my hand 
so formidable,” extricating it from his hold, " you 
would not have grasped it so hard ; hut I perceive 
you know me so fully, that there is no occasion to 
show you my face.” 

“Fair Catherine,” said the page, “he were un- 
worthy ever to have seen you, far less to have dwelt 
so long in the same service, and under the same roof 
with you, who could mistake your air, your gesture, 
your step in walking or in dancing, the turn of your 
neck, the symmetry of your form — none could be 
so dull as not to recognise you by so many proofs ; 
hut for me, I could swear even to that tress of hair 
that escapes from under your muffler.” 

“And to the face, of course, which that muffler 
covers,” said the maiden, removing her veil, and in 
an instant endeavouring to replace it. She showed 
the features of Catherine ; but an unusual degree 
of petulant impatience infiamed them, when, from 
some awkwardness in her management of the muf- 
fler, she was unable again to adjust it with that 
dexterity which was a principal accomplishment of 
the coquettes of the time. 

“ The fiend rive the rag to tatters ! ” said the 
damsel, as the veil fluttered about her shoulders, 
with an accent so earnest and decided, that it made 
the page start. He looked again at the damsel’s 
face, but the information which his eyes received, 


ii8 


THE ABBOT. 


was to the same purport as before. He assisted her 
to adjust her muffler, and both were for an instant 
silent. The damsel spoke first, for Koland Graeme 
was overwhelmed with surprise at the contrarieties 
which Catherine Seyton seemed to include in her 
person and character. 

“ You are surprised,” said the damsel to him, 
“ at what you see and hear — But the times which 
make females men, are least of all fitted for men to 
become women ; yet you yourself are in danger of 
such a change.” 

“ I in danger of becoming efifeminate ! ” said the page. 

“ Yes, you, for all the boldness of your reply,” 
said the damsel. “ When you should hold fast your 
religion, because it is assailed on all sides by rebels, 
traitors, and heretics, you let it glide out of your 
breast like water grasped in the hand. If you are 
driven from the faith of your fathers from fear of a 
traitor, is not that womanish ? — If you are cajoled 
by the cunning arguments of a trumpeter of heresy, 
or the praises of a puritanic old woman, is not that 
womanish ? — If you are bribed by the hope of spoil 
and preferment, is not that womanish ? — And when 
you wonder at my venting a threat or an execra- 
tion, should you not wonder at yourself, who, 
pretending to a gentle name, and aspiring to knight- 
hood, can be at the same time cowardly, silly, and 
self-interested ? ” 

“ I would that a man would bring such a charge ! ” 
said the page ; “ he should see, ere his life was a 
minute older, whether he had cause to term me 
coward or no.” 

“ Beware of such big words,” answered the maiden ; 
“ you said but anon that I sometimes wear hose and 
doublet.” 


THE ABBOT. 


119 

“But remain still Catherine Seyton, wear what 
you list,” said the page, endeavouring again to pos- 
sess himself of her hand. 

“ You indeed are pleased to call me so,” replied 
the maiden, evading his intention, “but I have 
many other names besides.” 

“ And will you not reply to that,” said the page, 
“ by which you are distinguished beyond every other 
maiden in Scotland ? ” 

The damsel, unallured by his praises, still kept 
aloof, and sung with gaiety a verse from an old 
ballad, 

“ O some do call me Jack, sweet love, 

And some do call me Gill; 

But when I ride to Holyrood, 

My name is Wilful Will.’* 

“ Wilful Will ! ” exclaimed the page, impatiently ; 
“ say rather Will 0’ the Wisp — Jack with the Lan- 
tern, for never was such a deceitful or wandering 
meteor ! ” 

“ If I be such,” replied the maiden, “ I ask no 
fools to follow me — If they do so, it is at their own 
pleasure, and must be on their own proper peril.” 

“ Nay, but, dearest Catherine,” said Eoland Grseme, 
“ be for one instant serious.” 

“ If you will call me your dearest Catherine, when 
I have given you so many names to choose upon,” 
replied the damsel, “ I would ask you how, suppos- 
ing me for two or three hours of my life escaped 
from yonder tower, you have the cruelty to ask me 
to be serious during the only merry moments I have 
seen perhaps for months ? ” 

“Ay, but, fair Catherine, there are moments of 
deep and true feeling, which -are worth ten thousand 


120 


THE ABBOT. 


years of the liveliest mirth ; and such was that of 

yesterday, when you so nearly ” 

“ So nearly what ? ” demanded the damsel, hastily. 
“ When you approached your lips so near to the 
sign you had traced on my forehead.” 

“ Mother of Heaven ! ” exclaimed she, in a yet 
fiercer tone, and with a more masculine manner 
than she had yet exhibited, — “ Catherine Seyton 
approach her lips to a man’s brow, and thou that 
man ! — vassal, thou liest ! ” 

The page stood astonished ; but, conceiving he 
had alarmed the damsel’s delicacy by alluding to 
the enthusiasm of a moment, and the manner in 
which she had expressed it, he endeavoured to fal- 
ter forth an apology. His excuses, though he was 
unable to give them any regular shape, were accepted 
by his companion, who had indeed suppressed her 
indignation after its first * explosion — “ Speak no 
more on’t,” she said. “ And now let us part ; our 
conversation may attract more notice than is con- 
venient for either of us.” 

“ Hay, but allow me at least to follow you to some 
sequestered place.” 

“ You dare not,” replied the maiden. 

“ How,” said the youth, “ dare not ? where is it 
you dare go, where I dare not follow ? ” 

“ You fear a Will o’ the Wisp,” said the damsel; 
how would you face a fiery dragon, with an en- 
chantress mounted on its back ? ” 

“ Like Sir Eger, Sir Grime, or Sir Greysteil,” said 
the page ; “ but be there such toys to be seen here ?” 

“ I go to Mother Nicneven’s,” answered the maid ; 
“ and she is witch enough to rein the horned devil, 
with a red silk thread for a bridle, and a rowan- 
tree switch for a whip.” 


THE ABBOT. 


121 


^ I will follow you,” said the page. 

“ Let it be at some distance,” said the maiden. 

And wrapping her . mantle round her with more 
success than on her former attempt, she mingled 
with the throng, and walked to, wards the village, 
heedfully followed by Koland Graeme at some dis- 
tance, and under every precaution which he could 
use to prevent his purpose from being observed. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


Yes, it is she whose eyes look'd on thy childhood, 

And watch’d with trembling hope thy dawn of youth, 
That now, with these same eyeballs dimm’d with age. 
And dimmer yet with tears, sees thy dishonour. 

Old Play. 


At the entrance of the principal, or indeed, so to 
speak} the only street in Kinross, the damsel, whose 
steps were pursued by Roland Graeme, cast a glance 
behind her, as if to be certain he had not lost trace 
of her, and then plunged down a very narrow lane 
which ran betwixt two rows of poor and ruinous cot- 
tages. She paused for a second at the door of one 
of those miserable tenements, again cast her eye up 
the lane towards Roland, then lifted the latch, 
opened the door, and disappeared from his view. 

With whatever haste the page followed her ex- 
ample, the difficulty which he found in discovering 
the trick of the latch, which did not work quite in 
the usual manner, and in pushing open the door, 
which did not yield to his first effort, delayed for a 
minute or two his entrance into the cottage. A dark 
and smoky passage led, as usual, betwixt the ex- 
terior wall of the house, and the hallan, or clay-wall, 
which served as a partition betwixt it and the in- 
terior. At the end of this passage, and through the 
partition, was a door leading into the heUy or inner 
chamber of the cottage, and when Roland Graeme’s 
hand was upon the latch of this door, a female voice 





THE ABBOT. 


123 


pronounced, “ Benedictus qui venial in nomine Do- 
minij damnandus qui in nomine inimicV* On en- 
tering the apartment, he perceived the figure which 
the Chamberlain had pointed out to him as Mother 
Nicneven, seated beside the lowly hearth. But there 
was no other person in the room. Eoland Graeme 
gazed around in surprise at the disappearance of 
Catherine Seyton, without paying much regard to 
the supposed sorceress, until she attracted and 
riveted his regard by the tone in which she asked 
him — “ What seekest thou here ? ” 

“ I seek,” said the page, with much embarrass- 
ment, “ I seek ” 

But his answer was cut short when the old wo- 
man, drawing her huge grey eyebrows sternly to- 
gether, with a frown which knitted her brow into a 
thousand wrinkles, arose, and erecting herself up to 
her full natural size, tore the kerchief from her 
head, and seizing Eoland by the arm, made two 
strides across the floor of the apartment to a small 
window through which the light fell full on her 
face, and showed thp astonished youth the counte- 
nance of Magdalen Graeme. — “ Yes, Eoland,” she 
said, “ thine eyes deceive thee not ; they show thee 
truly the features of her whom thou hast thyself 
deceived, whose wine thou hast turned into gall, her 
bread of joyfulness into bitter poison, her hope into 
the blackest despair — it is she who now demands of 
thee, what seekest thou here ? — She whose heaviest 
sin towards Heaven hath been, that she loved thee 
even better than the weal of the whole church, and 
conld not without reluctance surrender thee even in 
the causei of God — she now asks you, what seekest 
thou here ? ” 

While she spoke, she kept her broad black eye 


124 


THE ABBOT. 


riveted on the youth’s face, with the expression with 
which the eagle regards his prey ere he tears it to 
pieces. Koland felt himself at the moment incap- 
able either of reply or evasion. This extraordinary 
enthusiast had preserved over him in some measure 
the ascendency which she had acquired during his 
childhood; and, besides, he knew the violence of 
her passions and her impatience of contradiction, 
and was sensible that almost any reply which he 
could make, was likely to throw her into an ecstasy 
of rage. He was therefore silent; and Magdalen 
Grseme proceeded with increasing enthusiasm in her 
apostrophe — “ Once more, what seek’st thou, false 
boy ? — seek’st thou the honour thou hast renounced, 
the faith thou hast abandoned, the hopes thou hast 
destroyed ? — Or didst thou seek me, the sole pro- 
tectress of thy youth, the only parent whom thou 
hast known, that thou mayst trample on my grey 
hairs, even as thou hast already trampled on the, 
best wishes of my heart ? ” 

“ Pardon me, mother,” said Koland Graeme ; “ but 
in truth and reason, I deserve not your blame. I 
have been treated amongst you — even by yourself, 
my revered parent, as well as by others — as one 
who lacked the common attributes of free-will and 
human reason, or was at least deemed unfit to exer- 
cise them. A land of enchantment have I been led 
into, and spells have been cast around me — every 
one has met me in disguise — every one has spojcen 
to me in parables — I have been like one who walks 
in a weary and bewildering dream ; and now you 
blame me that I have not the sense, and judgment, 
and steadiness, of a waking, and a disenchanted, and 
a reasonable man, who knows what he is doing, and 
wherefore he does it ! If one must walk with masks 


THE ABBOT. 


>25 


and spectres, who waft themselves from place to 
place as it were in vision rather than reality, it 
might shake the soundest faith and turn the wisest 
head. I sought, since I must needs avow my folly, 
the same Catherine Seyton with whom you made me 
first acquainted, and whom 1 most strangely find in 
this village of Kinross, gayest amongst the revellers, 
when I had but just left her in the well-guarded 
castle of Lochleven, the sad attendant of an im- 
prisoned Queen — I sought her, and in her place I 
find you, my mother, more strangely disguised than 
even she is.” 

“ And what hadst thou to do with Catherine Sey- 
ton ? ” said the matron sternly ; “ is this a time or a 
world to follow maidens, or to dance around a May- 
pole ? When the trumpet summons every true- 
hearted Scotsman around the standard of the true 
sovereign, shalt thou be found loitering in a lady’s 
bower ? ” 

“No, by Heaven, nor imprisoned in the rugged 
walls of an island castle ! ” answered Koland Graeme : 
“ I would the blast were to sound even now, for I 
fear that nothing less loud will dispel the chimeri- 
cal visions by which I am surrounded.” 

“Doubt not that it will be winded,” said the 
matron,' “ and that so fearfully loud, that Scotland 
will never hear the like until the last and loudest 
olast of all shall announce to mountain and to val- 
ley that time is no more. Meanwhile, be thou but 
orave and constant — Serve God and honour thy 
sovereign — Abide by thy religion — I cannot — I 
will not — I dare not ask thee the truth of the ter- 
rible surmises I have heard touching thy falling 
away — perfect not that accursed sacrifice — and 
yet, even at this late hour, thou mayst be what I 


126 


TEE ABBOT. 


have hoped for the son of my dearest hope — what 
say I ? the son of my hope — thou shalt be the hope 
of Scotland, her boast and her honour ! — Even thy 
wildest and most foolish wishes may perchance be 
fulfilled — I might blush to mingle meaner motives 
with the noble guerdon I hold out to thee — It 
shames me, being such as I am, to mention the idle 
passions of youth, save with contempt and the pur- 
pose of censure. But we must bribe children' to 
wholesome medicine by the offer of cates, and youth 
to honourable achievement with the promise of plea- 
sure. Mark me, therefore, Eoland. The love of 
Catherine Seyton will follow him only who shall 
achieve the freedom of her mistress ; and believe, it 
may be one day in thine own power to be that 
happy lover. Cast, therefore, away doubt and fear, 
and prepare to do what religion calls for, what thy 
country demands of thee, what thy duty as a subject 
and as a servant alike require at your hand ; and be 
assured, even the idlest or wildest wishes of thy 
heart will be most readily attained by following the 
call of thy duty.” 

• As she ceased speaking, a double knock was 
heard against the inner door. The matron, hastily 
adjusting her muffler, and resuming her chair by the 
hearth, demanded who was, there. 

“ Salve in nomine sanctol' was answered from 
without. 

“ Salvete et vos,” answered Magdalen Graeme. 

And a man entered in the ordinary dress of a no- 
bleman’s retainer, wearing at his girdle a sword and 
buckler — “I sought you,” said he, “my mother, 
and him whom I see with you.” Then addressing 
himself to Eoland Graeme, he said to him, “ Hast 
thou not a packet from George Douglas ? ” 


THE ABBOT. 


127 


“I have,” said the page, suddenly recollecting 
that which had been committed to his charge in 
the morning, “but I may not deliver it to any 
one without some token that they have a right to 
ask it.” 

“You say well,” replied the serving-man, and 
whispered into his ear, “ The packet which I ask is 
the report to his father — will this token suffice?” 

“It will,” replied the page, and taking the packet 
from his bosom, gave it to the man. 

“ I will return presently,” said the serving-man, 
and left the cottage. 

Eoland had now sufficiently recovered his sur- 
prise to accost his relative in turn, and request to 
know the reason why he found her in so precarious 
a disguise, and a place so dangerous — “You can- 
not be ignorant,” he said, “ of the hatred that the 
Lady of Lochleven bears to those of your — that is 
of our religion — your present disguise lays you open 
to suspicions of a different kind, but inferring no 
less hazard ; and whether as a Catholic, or as a sor- 
ceress, or as a friend to the unfortunate Queen, you 
are in equal danger, if apprehended within the 
bounds of the Douglas ; and in the chamberlain who 
administers their authority, you have, for his own 
reasons, an enemy, and a bitter one.” 

“ I know it,” said the matron, her eyes kindling 
with triumph ; “ I know that, vain of his school-craft 
and carnal wisdom, Luke Lundin views with jeal- 
ousy and hatred the blessings which the saints have 
conferred on my prayers, and on the holy relics, 
before the touch, nay, before the bare presence of 
which, disease and death have so often been known 
to retreat. — I know he would rend and tear me , 
but there is a chain and a muzzle on the ban-dog 


128 


THE ABBOT. 


that shall restrain his fury, and the Master’s ser- 
vant shall not be offended by him until the Master’s 
work is wrought. When that hour comes, let the 
shadows of the evening descend on me in thunder 
and in tempest ; the time shall be welcome that re- 
lieves my eyes from seeing guilt, and my ears from 
listening to blasphemy. Do thou but be constant 
— play thy part as . I have played and will play 
mine, and my release shall be like that of a blessed 
martyr whose ascent to heaven angels hail with 
psalm and song, while earth pursues him with hiss 
and with execration.” 

As she concluded, the serving- man again entered 
the cottage, and said, “ All is well ! the time holds 
for to-morrow night.” 

“What time? what holds?” exclaimed Eoland 
> Graeme ; “ I trust I have given the Douglas’s packet 
to no wrong ” 

“Content yourself, young man,” answered the 
serving-man ; “ thou hast my word and token.” 

“ I know not if the token be right,” said the 
page ; “ and I care not much for the word of a 
stranger.” 

“ What,” said the matron, “ although thou mayst 
have given a packet delivered to thy charge by one 
of the Queen’s rebels into the hand of a loyal sub- 
ject — there were no great mistake in that, thou 
hotbrained boy ! ” 

“By Saint Andrew, there were foul mistake, 
though,” answered the page ; “ it is the very spirit 
of my duty, in this first stage of chivalry, to be faith- 
ful to my trust ; and had the devil given me a mes- 
sage to discharge, I would not (so I had plighted 
my faith to the contrary) betray his counsel to an 
angel of light.” 


THE ABBOT. 


129 


“ Now, by the love I once bore thee,” said the 
matron, “ I could slay thee with mine own hand, 
when I hear thee talk of a dearer faith being due 
to rebels and heretics, than thou owest to thy church 
and thy prince ! ” 

“ Be patient, my good sister,” said the serving- 
man ; “ I will give him such reasons as shall coun- 
terbalance the scruples which beset him — the spirit 
is honourable, though now it may be mistimed and 
misplaced. — Follow me, young man.” 

“ Ere I go to call this stranger to a reckoning,” 
said the page to the matron, “ is there nothing I 
can do for your comfort and safety ? ” 

“Nothing,” she replied, “nothing, save what 
will lead more to thy own honour ; — the saints who 
have protected me thus far, will lend me succour as 
I need it. Tread the path bf glory that is before 
thee, and only think of me as the creature on earth 
who will be most delighted to hear of thy fame. — 
Follow the stranger — he hath tidings for you that 
you little expect.” 

The stranger remained on the threshold as if 
waiting for Roland, and as soon as he saw him put 
himself in motion, he moved on before at a quick 
pace. Diving still deeper down the lane, Roland 
perceived that it was now bordered by buildings 
upon the one side only, and that the other was fenced 
by a high old wall, over which some trees extended 
their branches. Descending a good way farther, 
they came to a small door in the wall. Roland’s 
guide paused, looked around for an instant to see 
if any one were within sight, then taking a key 
from his pocket, opened the door and entered, ma- 
king a sign to Roland Grseme to follow him. He 
did so, and the stranger locked the door carefully 

VOL. II. — 9 


» 


130 


THE ABBOT. 


on the inside. During this operation the page had 
a moment to look around, and perceived that he was 
in a small orchard very trimly kept. 

The stranger led him through an alley or two, 
shaded by trees loaded with summer-fruit, into a 
pleached arbour, where, taking the turf-seat which 
was on the one side, he motioned to Eoland to oc- 
cupy that which was opposite to him, and, after a 
momentary silence, opened the conversation as fol- 
lows : “ You have asked a better warrant than the 
word of a mere stranger, to satisfy you that I have 
the authority of George of Douglas for possessing 
myself of the packet intrusted to your charge ? ” 

“ It is precisely the point on which I demand 
reckoning of you,” said Eoland. “I fear I have 
acted hastily ; if so, I must redeem my error as I 
best may.” * 

“ You hold me then as a perfect stranger ? ** said 
the man. “ Look at my face more attentively, and 
see if the features do not resemble those of a man 
much known to you formerly.” 

Eoland gazed attentively ; but the ideas recalled 
to his mind were so inconsistent *with the mean and 
servile dress of the person before him, that he did 
not venture to express the opinion which he was 
irresistibly induced to form. 

“Yes, my son,’' said the stranger, observing his 
embarrassment, “ you do indeed see before you the 
unfortunate Father Ambrosius, who once accounted 
his ministry crowned in your preservation from the 
snares of heresy, but who is now condemned to 
lament thee as a castaway ! ” 

Eoland Grseme’s kindness of heart was at least 
equal to his vivacity of temper — he could not bear 
to see his ancient and honoured master and spiritual 


THE ABBOT. 


131 


guide in a situation which inferred a change of for- 
tune so melancholy, but throwing himself at his 
feet, grasped his knees and wept aloud. 

“What mean these tears, my son ?” said the 
Abbot ; “ if they are shed for your own sins and 
follies, surely they are gracious showers, and may 
avail thee much — but weep not, if they fall on my 
account. You indeed see the Superior of the Com- 
munity of Saint Mary’s in the dress of a poor 
sworder, who gives his master the use of his blade 
and buckler, and, if needful, of his life, for a coarse 
livery coat, and four marks by the year. But such 
a garb suits the time, and, in the period of the 
church militant, as well becomes her prelates, as 
staff, mitre, and crosier, in the days of the church’s 
triumph.” 

“ By what fate,” said the page, — “ and yet why,” 
added he, checking himself, “ need I ask ? Cathe- 
rine Seyton in some sort prepared me for this. But 
that the change should be so absolute — the destruc- 
tion so complete !” 

“ Yes, my son,” said the Abbot Ambrosius, 
“ thine own eyes beheld, in my unworthy elevation 
to the Abbot’s stall, the last especial act of holy 
solemnity which shall be seen in the church of Saint 
Mary’s, until it shall please Heaven to turn back 
the captivity of the church. For the present, the 
shepherd is smitten — ay, wellnigh to the earth — - 
the flocks are scattered, and the shrines of saints and 
martyrs, and pious benefactors to the church, are 
given to the owls of night, and the satyrs of the 

desert” . * i 

“ And your brother, the Knight of Avenel — 

could he do nothing for your protection ? ” _ 

“ He himself hath fallen under the suspicion of 


132 


THE ABBOT. 


the ruling powers,” said the Abbot, “ who are as 
unjust to their friends as they are cruel to their 
enemies. I could not grieve at it, did I hope it might 
estrange him from his course ; but I know the soul 
of Halbert, and I rather fear it will drive him to 
prove his fidelity to their unhappy cause, by some 
deed which may be yet more destructive to the 
church, and more offensive to Heaven. Enough of 
this ; and now to the business of our meeting. — I 
trust you will hold it sufficient if I pass my word to 
you that the packet of which you were lately the 
bearer, was designed for my hands by George of 
Douglas ? ” 

“ Then,” said the page, “is George of Douglas ” 

“ A true friend to his Queen, Koland ; and will 
soon, I trust, have his eyes opened to the errors of 
his (miscalled) church.” 

“ But what is he to his father, and what- to the 
Lady of Lochleven, who has been as a mother to 
him ? ” said the page impatiently. 

“The best friend to both, in time and through 
eternity,” said the Abbot, “ if he shall prove the 
happy instrument for redeeming the evil they have 
wrought, and are still working.” 

“ Still,” said the page, “ I like not that good 
service which begins in breach of trust.” 

“ I blame not thy scruples, my son,’’ said the Ab- 
bot ; “ but the time which has wrenched asunder the 
allegiance of Christians to the church, and of subjects 
to their king, has dissolved all the lesser bonds of 
society ; and, in such days, mere human ties must 
no more restrain our progress, than the brambles 
and briers, which catch hold of his garments 
should delay the path of a pilgrim who travels to 
pay his vows.” 


THE ABBOT. 


*33 


“ But, my father,” 7— said the youth, and then stopt 
short in a hesitating manner. 

‘‘Speak on, my son,” said the Abbot; “speak 
without fear.” 

“Let me not offend you then,” said Eoland, 
“ when I answer, that it is even this which our ad- 
versaries charge against us, when they say, that 
shaping the means according to the end, we are 
willing to commit great moral evil in order that we 
may work out eventual good.” 

“ The heretics 'have played their usual arts on 
you, my son,” said the Abbot ; “ they would will- 
ingly deprive us of the power of acting wisely and 
secretly, though their possession of superior force 
forbids our contending with them on the terms of 
equality. They have reduced us to a state of ex- 
hausted weakness, and now would fain proscribe the 
means by which weakness, through all the range of 
nature, supplies the lack of strength, and defends 
itself against its potent enemies. As well might'^he 
hound say to the hare, use not these wily turns to 
escape me, but contend with me in pitched battle, 
as the armed and powerful heretic demand of the 
down-trodden and oppressed Catholic to lay aside 
the wisdom of the serpent, by which alone they may 
again hope to raise up the Jerusalem over which 
they weep, and which it is their duty to rebuild — 
But more of this hereafter. And now, my son, I 
command thee on thy faith to tell me truly and par- 
ticularly what has chanced to thee since we parted, 
and what is the present state of thy conscience. Thy 
relation, our sister Magdalen, is a woman of excel- 
lent gifts, blessed with a zeal which neither doubt 
nor danger can quench ; but yet it is not a zeal al- 
together according to knowledge ; wherefore, my son, 


134 


THE ABBOT. 


I would willingly be myself thy interrogator and thy 
counsellor, in these days of darkness and stratagem.” 

With the respect which he owed to his first in- 
structor, Eoland Graeme went rapidly through the 
events which the reader is acquainted with ; and 
while he disguised not from the prelate the impres- 
sion which had been made on his mind by the 
arguments of the preacher Henderson, he acciden- 
tally, and almost involuntarily, gave his Father 
Confessor to understand the influence which Cathe- 
rine Seyton had acquired over him. 

“ It is with joy I discover, my dearest son,” re- 
plied the Abbot, “that I have arrived in time to 
arrest thee on the verge of the precipice to which 
thou wert approaching. These doubts of which you 
conqplain, are the weeds which naturally grow up 
in a strong soil, and require the careful hand of the 
husbandman to eradicate them. Thou must study 
a little volume, which I will impart to thee in fit- 
ting time, in which, by Our Lady’s grace, I have 
placed in somewhat a clearer light than heretofore, 
the points debated betwixt us and these heretics, 
who sow among the wheat the same tares which 
were formerly privily mingled with the good seed 
by the Albigenses and the Lollards. But it is not 
by reason alone that you must hope to conquer 
these insinuations of the enemy : It is sometimes by 
timely resistance, but oftener by timely flight. You 
must shut your ears against the arguments of the 
heresiarch, when circumstances permit you not to 
withdraw the foot from his company. Anchor your 
thoughts upon the service of Our Lady, while he 
is expending in vain his heretical sophistry. Are 
you unable to maintain your attention on heavenly 
objects, think rather on thine own earthly pleasures^ 


THE ABBOT. 


135 


than tempt Providence and the Saints by giving an 
attentive ear to the erring doctrine — think of thy 
hawk, thy hound, thine angling rod, thy sword and 
buckler — think even of Catherine Seyton, rather 
than give thy soul to the lessons of the tempter. 
Alas ! my son, believe not that, worn out with woes, 
and bent more by affliction than by years, I have 
forgotten the effect of beauty over the heart of 
youth. Even in the watches of the night, broken 
by thoughts of an imprisoned Queen, a distracted 
kingdom, a church laid waste and ruinous, come 
other thoughts than these suggest, and feelings 
which belonged to an earlier and happier course of 
life. Be it so — we must bear our load as we may : 
and not in vain are these passions implanted in our 
breast, since, as now in thy case, they may come in 
aid of resolutions founded upon higher grounds. 
Yet beware, my son — this Catherine Seyton is the 
daughter of one of Scotland’s proudest, as well as 
most worthy barons ; and thy state may not suffer 
thee, as yet, to aspire so high. But thus it is — 
Heaven works its purposes through human” folly ; 
and Douglas’s ambitious affection, as well as thine, 
shall contribute alike to the desired end.” 

“ How, my father,” said the page, “ my suspi- 
cions are then true ! — Douglas loves ” 

“ He does ; and with a love as much misplaced 
as thine own ; but beware of him — cross him not 
— thwart him not.” 

“ Let him not cross or thwart me,” said the page ; 
“ for I will not yield him an inch of way, had he 
in his body the soul of every Douglas that has lived 
since the time of the Dark Grey Man.” ^ 

1 By an ancient, though improbable tradition, the Douglasses 
are said to have derived their name from a champion who had 


136 


THE ABBOT. 


“Nay, have patience, idle boy, and reflect that 
your suit can never interfere with his. — But a truce 
with these vanities, and let us better employ the 
little space which still remains to us to spend to- 
gether. To thy knees, my son, and resume the 
long-interrupted duty of confession, that, happen 
what may, the hour may find in thee a faithful 
Catholic, relieved from the guilt of his sins by 
authority of the Holy Church. Could I but tell 
thee, Eoland, the joy with which I see thee once 
more put thy knee to its best and fittest use ! Quid 
diciSy mi fili ? ” 

“ Culpas measy” answered the youth ; and accord- 
ing to the ritual of the Catholic Church, he confessed 
and received absolution, to which was annexed the 
condition of performing certain enjoined penances. 

When this religious ceremony was ende’d, an old 
man, in the dress of a peasant of the better order, 
approached the arbour, and greeted the Abbot. — “I 
have waited the conclusion of your devotions,” he 
said, “to tell you the youth is sought after by the 
chamb^lain, and it were well he should appear 
without delay. Holy Saint Francis, if the halber- 
diers were to seek him here, they might sorely 
wrong my garden-plot — they are in office, and reck 
not where they tread, were each step on jessamine 
and clove-gillyflowers.” 

“We will speed him forth, my brother,” said 
the Abbot ; “ but, alas ! is it possible that such 
trifles should live in your mind at a crisis so awful 
as that which is now impending ? ” 

greatly distinguished himself in an action. When the king 
demanded by whom the battle had been won, the attendants are 
said to have answered, “Sholto Douglas, sir;” which is said to 
mean, “ Yonder dark grey man.” But the name is undoubtedly 
territorial, and taken from Douglas river and dale. 


THE ABBOT. 


137 


"Reverend father,” answered the proprietor of 
the garden, for such he was, how oft shall I pray 
you to keep your high counsel for high minds like 
your own? What have you required of me, that 
I have not granted unresistingly, though with an 
aching heart ? ” 

" I would require of you to be yourself, my hi- 
ther,” said the Abbot Ambrosius ; " to rememlier 
what you were, and to what your early vows have 
bound you.” 

"I tell thee. Father Ambrosius,” replied the 
gardener, “ the patience of the best saint that ever 
said pater-noster, would he exhausted by the trials 
to which you have put mine — What I have been, 
it skills not to speak at present — no one knows bet- 
ter than yourself, father, what I renounced, in hopes 
to find ease and quiet during the remainder of my 
days — and no one better knows how my retreat has 
been invaded, my fruit-trees broken, my flower-beds 
trodden down, my quiet frightened away, and my 
very sleep driven from my bed, since ever this poor 
Queen, God bless her, hath been sent to Lochleven. 
— I blame her not ; being a prisoner, it is natural 
she should wish to get out from so vile a hold, where 
there is scarcely any place even for a tolerable gar- 
den, and where the water-mists, as I am told, blight 
alltheearly blossoms — Isay, I cannot blame her 
for endeavouring for her freedom ; but why I should 
be drawn into the scheme — why my harmless ar- 
bours, that I planted with my own hands, should 
become places of privy conspiracy — why my little 
quay, which I built for my own fishing boat, should 
have become a haven for secret embarkations in 
short, why I should he dragged into matters where 
both heading and hanging are like to be the issuq 


THE ABBOT. 


138 

I profess to you, reverend father, I am totally 
ignorant.” 

“My brother,” answered the Abbot, “you are 
wise, and ought to know ” 

“ I am not — I am not — I am not wise,” replied 
the horticulturist, pettishly, and stopping his ears 
with his fingers — “I was never called wise, but 
when men wanted to engage me in some action of 
notorious folly.” 

“ But, my good brother,” said the Abbot 

“ I am not good, neither,” said the peevish gar- 
dener ; “ I am neither good nor wise — Had I been 
wise, you would not have been admitted here ; and 
were I good, methinks I should send you elsewhere, 
to hatch plots for destroying the quiet of the coun- 
try. What signifies disputing about queen or king, 
when men may sit at peace — sub umbra vitis sui ? 
and so would I do, after the precept of holy writ, 
were I, as you term me, wise or good. But such 
as I am, my neck is in the yoke, and you make me 
draw what weight you list. — Follow me, youngster. 
This reverend father, who makes in his Jackman’s 
dress nearly as reverend a figure as I myself, will 
agree with me in one thing at least, and that is, 
that you have been long enough here.” 

“ Follow the good father, Boland,” said the Ab- 
bot, “ and remember my words — a day is approach- 
ing that will try the temper of all true Scotsmen 
— may thy heart prove faithful as the .steel of thy 
blade ! ” 

The page bowed in silence, and they parted ; the 
gardener, notwithstanding his advanced age, walk- 
ing on before him very briskly, and muttering as 
he went, partly to himself, partly to his companion, 
after the manner of old men of weakened intellects 


THE ABBOT. 


139 


— “ When I was great,’* thus ran his maundering, 
“and had my mule and my ambling palfrey at com- 
mand, I warrant you I could have as well flown 
through the air as have walked at this pace. I had 
my gout and my rheumatics, and an hundred things 
besides, that hung fetters on my heels ; and now, 
thanks to Our Lady, and honest labour, I can walk 
with any good man of my age in the^ kingdom of 
Fife — Fy upon it, that experience should be so long 
in coming ! ” 

As he was thus muttering, his eye fell upon the 
branch of a pear-tree which drooped down for want 
of support, and at once forgetting his haste, the old 
man stopped and set seriously about binding it up, 
Koland Graeme had both readiness, neatness of 
hand, and good nature in abundance ; he immedi- 
ately lent his aid, and in a minute or two the bough 
was supported, and tied up in a way perfectly satis- 
factory to the old man, who looked at it with great 
complaisance. “ They are bergamots,” he said, “ and 
if you will come ashore in autumn, you shall taste of 
them — the like are not in Lochleven Castle — the 
garden there is a poor pinfold, and the gardener, 
Hugh Houkham, hath little skill of his craft — so 
come ashore, Master Page, in autumn, when you 
would eat pears. But what am I thinking of — ere 
that time come, they may have given thee sour pears 
for plums. Take an old man’s advice, youth, one 
who hath seen many days, and sat in higher places 
than thou canst hope for — bend thy sword into a 
pruning-hook, and make a dibble of thy dagger — 
thy days shall be the longer, and thy health the 
better for it — and come to aid me in my garden, 
and I will teach thee the real French fashion of imjp^ 
ing^ which the Southron call graffing. Do this, and 


f40 


THE ABBOT. 


do it without loss of time, for there is a whirlwind 
coming over the land, and only those shall escape 
who lie too much beneath the storm to have their 
boughs broken by it.” 

So saying, he dismissed Eoland Graeme, through 
a different door from that by which he had entered, 
signed a cross, and pronounced a benedicite as they 
parted, and then, still muttering to himself, retired 
into the garden, and locked the door on the inside. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Pny God she prove not masculine ere long ! 

King Henry VI, 

Dismissed from the old man's garden, Roland 
Graeme found that a grassy paddock, in which saun- 
tered two cows, the property of the gardener, still 
separated him from the village. He paced through 
it, lost in meditation upon the words of the Abbot. 
Father Ambrosius had, with success enough, ex- 
erted over him that powerful influence which the 
guardians and instructors of our childhood possess 
over our more mature youth. And yet, when Ro- 
land looked back upon what the father had said, he 
could not but suspect that he had rather sought to 
evade entering into the controversy betwixt the 
churches, than to repel the objections and satisfy 
the doulpts which the lectures of Henderson had 
excited. “ For this he had no time,” said the page 
to himself, “ neither have I now calmness and learn- 
ing sufficient to judge upon points of such magni- 
tude. Besides, it were base to quit my faith while 
the wind of fortune sets against it, unless I were so 
placed that my conversion, should it take place, were 
free as light from the imputation of self-interest. I 
was bred a Catholic — bred in the faith of Bruce and 
Wallace — I will hold that faith till time and reason 
shall convince me that it errs. I will serve this poor 
Queen as a subject should serve an imprisoned and 
wronged sovereign — they who placed me in her 


142 


THE ABBOT. 


service have to blame themselves — they sent me 
hither, a gentleman trained in the paths of loyalty 
and honour, when they should have sought out some 
truckling, cogging, double-dealing knave, who would 
have been at once the observant page of the Queen, 
and the obsequious spy of her enemies. Since I 
must choose betwixt aiding and betraying her, I 
will decide as becomes her servant and her subject; 
but Catherine Seyton — Catherine Seyton, beloved 
by Douglas, and holding me on or off as the inter- 
vals of her leisure or caprice will permit — how 
shall I deal with the coquette ? — By Heaven, when 
I next have an opportunity, she shall render me 
some reason for her conduct, or I will break with 
her for ever ! ” 

As he formed this doughty resolution, he crossed 
the stile which led out of the little enclosure, and was 
almost immediately greeted by Dr. Luke Lundin. 

Ha ! my most excellent young friend,” said the 
Doctor, from whence come you ? — bu^t I note the 
place. — Yes, neighbour Blinkhoolie’s garden is a 
pleasant rendezvous, and you are of the age when 
lads look after a bonny lass with one eye, and a 
dainty plum with another. But hey ! you look sub- 
triste and melancholic — I fear the maiden has 
proved cruel, or the plums unripe; and surely, I 
think neighbour Blinkhoolie’s damsons can scarcely 
have been well preserved throughout the winter — 
he spares the saccharine juice on his confects. But 
courage, man, there are more Kates in Kinross ; 
and for the immature fruit, a glass of my double 
distilled aqua mirabilis — prohatum est.** 

The page darted an ireful glance at the facetious 
physician ; but presently recollecting that the name 
Kate, which had provoked his displeasure, was prob- 


THE ABBOT. 


143 


ably but introduced for the sake of alliteration, he 
suppressed his wrath, and only asked if the wains 
had been heard of ? 

“Why, I have been seeking for you this hour, 
to tell you that the stuff is in your boat, and that 
the boat waits your pleasure. .Auchtermuchty had 
only fallen into company with an idle knave like 
himself, and a stoup of aquavitse between them. 
Your boatmen lie on their oars, and there have 
already been made two wefts from the warder’s tur- 
ret, to intimate that those in the castle are impatient 
for your return. Yet there is time for you to take 
a slight repast; and, as your friend and physician, 
I hold it unfit you should face the water-breeze 
with an empty stomach.” 

Eoland Graeme had nothing for it but to return, 
with such cheer as he might, to the place where his 
boat was moored on the beach, and resisted all offer 
of refreshment, although the Doctor promised that 
he should prelude the collation with a gentle appe- 
tizer — a decoction of herbs, gathered and distilled 
by himself. Indeed, as Eoland had not forgotten 
the contents of his morning cup, it is possible that 
the recollection induced him to stand firm in his 
refusal of all food, to which such an unpalatable 
preface was the preliminary. As they passed 
towards the boat, (for the ceremonious politeness 
of the worthy Chamberlain would not permit the 
page to go thither without attendance,) Eoland 
Graeme, amidst a group who seemed to be assembled 
around a party of wandering musicians, distinguished, 
as he thought, the dress of Catherine Seyton. He 
shook himself clear from his attendant, and at one 
spring was in the midst of the crowd, and at the 
side of the damsel. “ Catherine,” he whispered 


144 


THE ABBOT. 


“ is it well for you to be still here ? — will you not 
return to the castle ? ” 

“To the devil with your Catherines and your 
castles ! ” answered the maiden, snappishly ; “ have 
you not had time enough already to get rid of your 
follies ? . Begone ! I desire not your farther com- 
pany, and there will be danger in thrusting it upon 
me.” 

“Nay — but if there be danger, fairest Catherine,” 
replied Eoland, “ why will you not allow me to stay 
and share it with you ? ” 

“ Intruding fool,” said the maiden, “ the danger 
is all on thine own side — the risk is, in plain terms, 
that I strike thee on the mouth with the hilt of my 
dagger.” So saying, she turned haughtily from 
him, and moved through the crowd, who gave way 
in some astonishment at the masculine activity with 
which she forced her way among them. 

As Eoland, though much irritated, prepared to 
follow, he was grappled on the other side by Doctor 
Luke Lundin, who reminded him of the loaded boat, 
of the two wefts, or signals with the flag, which 
had been made from the tower, of the danger of 
the cold breeze to an empty stomach, and of the 
vanity of spending more time upon coy wenches 
and sour plums. Eoland was thus, in a manner, 
dragged back to his boat, and obliged to launch her 
forth upon his return to Lochleven Castle. 

That little voyage was speedily accomplished, and 
the page was greeted at the landing-place by the 
severe and caustic welcome of old Dryfesdale. “ So, 
young gallant, you are come at last, after a delay 
of six hours, and after two signals from the castle ? 
But, I warrant, some idle junketing had occupied 
you too deeply to think of your service or your 


THE ABBOT. 


145 


duty. Where is the note of the plate and house- 
hold stuff ? — Pray Heaven it hath not been dimin- 
ished under the sleeveless care of so heedless a 
gadabout ! ” 

“ Diminished under my care, Sir Steward ? ” re- 
torted the page angrily ; “ say so in earnest, and 
by Heaven your grey hair shall hardly protect jour 
saucy tongue ! ” 

“ A truce with your swaggering, young esquire,” 
returned the steward ; “ we have bolts and dun- 
geons for brawlers. Go to my lady, and swagger 
before her, if thou darest — she will give thee 
proper cause of offence, for she has waited for thee 
long and impatiently.” 

“ And where then is the Lady of Lochleven ? ” 
said the page; “for I conceive it is of her thou 
speakest.” 

« Ay — of whom else ? ” replied Dryfesdale ; “ or 
who besides the Lady of Lochleven hath a right to 
command in this castle ? ” 

“The Lady of Lochleven is thy mistress,” said 
Boland Grseme ; “ but mine is the Queen of Scotland.” 

The steward looked at him fixedly for a moment, 
with an air in which suspicion and dislike were ill 
concealed by an affectation of contempt. “ The brag- 
ging cock-chicken,” he said, “ will betray himself by 
his rash crowing. I have marked thy altered man- 
ner in the chapel of late — ay, and your changing of 
glances at mealtime with a certain idle damsel, who, 
like thyself, laughs at all gravity and goodness. 
There is something about you, my master, which 
should be looked to. But, if you would know 
whether the Lady of Lochleven or that other lady 
hath right to command thy service, thou wilt find 
them together in the Lady Mary’s anteroom.” 

VOL. II. — 10 


146 


THE ABBOT. 


Koland hastened thither, not unwilling to escape 
from the ill-natured penetration of the old man, and 
marvelling at the same time what peculiarity could 
have occasioned the Lady of Lochleven’s being in the 
Queen’s apartment at this time of the afternoon, so 
much contrary to her usual wont. His acuteness 
instantly penetrated the meaning. “She wishes,” 
he concluded, “ to see the meeting betwixt the Queen 
and me on my return, that she may form a guess 
whether there is any private intelligence or under- 
standing betwixt us — I must be guarded.” 

With this resolution he entered the parlour, where 
the Queen, seated in her chair, with the Lady Flem- 
ing leaning upon the back of it, had already kept the 
Lady of Lochleven standing in her presence for the 
space of nearly an hour, to the manifest increase of 
her very visible bad humour. Eoland Grseme, on 
entering the apartment, made a deep obeisance to the 
Queen, and another to the Lady, and then stood still 
as if to await their further question. Speaking al- 
most together, the Lady Lochleven said, “ So, young 
man, you are returned at length ? ” 

And then stopped indignantly short, while the 
Queen went on without regarding her — “Eoland, 
you are welcome home to us — you have proved the 
true dove and not the raven — Yet I am sure I 
could have forgiven you, if, once dismissed from this 
water-circled ark of ours, you had never again re- 
turned to us. I trust you have brought back an 
olive branch, for our kind and worthy hostess has 
chafed herself much on account of your long absence, 
and we never needed more some symbol of peace and 
reconciliation.” 

“ I grieve I should have been detained, madam,” 
answered the page ; “ but from the delay of the per- 


THE ABBOT. 


147 


son intrusted with the matters for which I was sent, 
I did not receive them till late in the day.” 

“ See you there now,” said the Queen to the Lady 
Lochleven ; “ we could not persuade you, our dearest 
hostess, that your household goods were in all safe 
keeping and surety. True it is, that we can excuse 
your anxiety, considering that these august apart- 
ments are so scantily furnished, that we have not 
been able to offer you even the relief of a stool dur- 
ing the long time you have afforded us the pleasure 
of your society.” 

“ The will, madam,” said the Lady, " the will to 
offer such accommodation was more wanting than the 
means.” 

“What!” said the Queen, looking round, and 
affecting surprise, “there are then stools in this 
apartment — one, two — no less than four, including 
the broken one — a royal garniture ! — We observed 
them not — will it please your ladyship to sit ? ” 

“ No, madam, I will soon relieve you of my pres- 
ence,” replied the Lady Lochleven ; “ and, while 
with you, my aged limbs can still better brook fa- 
tigue, than my mind stoop to accept of constrained 
courtesy.” 

“ Nay, Lady of Lochleven, if you take it so deeply,” 
said the Queen, rising and motioning to her own va- 
cant chair, “ I would rather you assumed my seat — 
you are not the first of your family who has done so.” 

The Lady of Lochleven curtsied a negative, but 
seemed with much difficulty to suppress the angry 
answer which rose to her lips. 

During this sharp conversation, the page’s atten- 
tion had been almost entirely occupied by the en- 
trance of Catherine Seyton, who came from the 
inner apartment, in the usual dress in which she 


148 


THE ABBOT. 


attended upon the Queen, and with nothing in her 
manner which marked either the hurry or confusion 
incident to a hasty change of disguise, or the con- 
scious fear of detection in a perilous enterprise. 
Koland Grseme ventured to make her an obeisance as 
she entered, but she returned it with an air of the 
utmost indifference, which, in his opinion, was ex- 
tremely inconsistent with the circumstances in which 
they stood towards each other. — “ Surely,” he 
thought, “she cannot in reason expect to bully me 
out of the belief due to mine own eyes, as she tried to 
do concerning the apparition in the hostelry of Saint 
Michael’s — I will try if I cannot make her feel 
that this will be but a vain task, and that confidence 
in me is the wiser and safer course to pursue.” 

These thoughts had passed rapidly through his 
mind, when the Queen, having finished her alterca- 
tion with the Lady of the castle, again addressed him 

— “ What of the revels at Kinross, Koland Graeme ? 
Meth ought they were gay, if I may judge from some 
faint sounds of mirth and distant music, which found 
their way so far as these grated windows, and died 
when they entered them, as all that is mirthful must 

— But thou lookest as sad as if thou hadst come from 
a conventicle of the Huguenots ! ” 

“ And so perchance he hath, madam,” replied the 
Lady of Lochleven, at whom this side-shaft was 
launched. “ I trust, amid yonder idle fooleries, there 
wanted not some pouring forth of doctrine to a 
better purpose than that vain mirth, which, blaz- 
ing and vanishing like the crackling of dry thorns, 
leaves to the fools who love it nothing but dust 
and ashes.” 

“ Mary Fleming,” said the Queen, turning round 
and drawing her mantle about her, “ I would that we 


THE ABBOT. 


149 


had the chimney-grate supplied with a fagot or two 
of these same thorns which the Lady of Lochleven 
describes so well. Methinks the damp air from the 
lake, which stagnates in these vaulted rooms, renders 
them deadly cold.” 

“Your Grace’s pleasure shall be obeyed,” said 
the Lady of LocKleven ; “ yet may I presume to 
remind you that we are now in summer ? ” 

“ I thank you for the information, my good lady,” 
said the Queen; “for prisoners better learn their 
calendar from the mouth of their jailor, than from 
any change they themselves feel in the seasons. — 
Once more, Eoland Grieme, what of the revels ? ” 

“They were gay, madam,” said the page, “but 
of the usual sort, and little worth your Highness’s 
ear.” 

“ 0, you know not,” said the Queen, “ how very 
indulgent my ear has become to all that speaks of 
freedom and the pleasures of the free. Methinks I 
would rather have seen the gay villagers dance their 
ring round the Maypole, than have witnessed the 
most stately masques within the precincts of a 
palace. The absence of stone-walls — the sense that 
the green turf is under the foot which may tread 
it free and unrestrained, is worth all that art or 
splendour can add to more courtly revels.” 

“I trust,” said the Lady Lochleven, addressing 
the page in her turn, “there were amongst these 
follies none of the riots or disturbances to which 
they so naturally lead ? ” 

Eoland gave a slight glance to Catherine Seyton, 
as if to bespeak her attention, as he replied, — “I 
witnessed no offence, madam, worthy of marking 
none indeed of any kind, save that a bold damsel 
made her hand somewhat too familiar with the cheek 


50 


THE ABBOT. 


of a player-man, and ran some risk of being ducked 
in the lake.” 

As he uttered these words he cast a hasty glance 
at Catherine; but she sustained, with the utmost 
serenity of manner and countenance, the hint 
which he had deemed could not have been thrown 
out before her without exciting some fear and 
confusion. 

“I will cumber your Grace no longer with my 
presence,” said the Lady Lochleven, “unless you 
have aught to command me.” 

“Nought, our good hostess,” answered the Queen, 
“ unless it be to pray you, that on another occasion 
you deem it not needful to postpone your better 
employment to wait so long upon us.” 

“ May it please you,” added the Lady Lochleven, 
“ to command this your gentleman to attend us, that 
I may receive some account of these matters which 
have been sent hither for your Grace’s use ? ” 

“We may not refuse what you are pleased to re- 
quire, madam,” answered the Queen. “ Go with the 
lady, Eoland, if our commands be indeed neces- 
sary to thy doing so. We will hear to-morrow the 
history of thy Kinross pleasures. For this night 
we dismiss thy attendance.” 

Eoland Grseme went with the Lady of Lochleven, 
who failed not to ask him many questions concern- 
ing what had passed at the sports, to which he 
rendered such answers as were most likely to lull 
asleep any suspicions which she might entertain of 
his disposition to favour Queen Mary, taking espe- 
cial care to avoid all allusion to the apparition of 
Magdalen Graeme, and of the Abbot Ambrosius. 
At length, after undergoing a long and somewhat 
close examination, he was dismissed with such ex- 


THE ABBOT. 


151 

pressions, as, coming from the reserved and stern 
Lady of Lochleven, might seem to express a degree 
of favour and countenance. 

His first care was to obtain some refreshment, 
which was more cheerfully afforded him by a good- 
natured pantler than by Dryfesdale, who was, on 
this occasion, much disposed to abide by the fashion 
of Pudding-burn House, where 

They who came not the first call, 

Gat no more meat till the next meal. 

When Eoknd Grseme had finished his repast, 
having his dismissal from the Queen for the even- 
ing, and being little inclined for such society as the 
castle afforded, he stole into the garden, in which 
he had permission to spend his leisure time, when 
it pleased him. In this place, the ingenuity of the 
contriver and disposer of the walks had exerted it- 
self to make the most of little space, and by screens, 
both of stone ornamented with rude sculpture, and 
hedges of living green, had endeavoured to give as 
much intricacy and variety as the confined limits of 
the garden would admit. 

Here the young man walked sadly, considering 
the events of the day, and comparing what had 
dropped from the Abbot with what he had himself 
noticed of the demeanour of George Douglas. “ It 
must be so,” was the painful but inevitable conclu- 
sion at which he arrived. “ It must be by his aid that 
she is thus enabled, like a phantom, to transport her- 
self from place to place, and to appear at pleasure on 
the mainland or on the islet. — It must be so,” he 
repeated once more; “with him she holds a close, 
secret, and intimate correspondence, altogether in- 
consistent with the eye of favour which she has 


THE ABBOT. 


152 

sometimes cast upon me, and destructive to the 
hopes which she must have known these glances 
have necessarily inspired.” And yet (for love will 
hope where reason despairs) the thought rushed on 
his mind, that it was possible she only encouraged 
Douglas’s passion so far as might serve her mistress’s 
interest, and that she was of too frank, noble, and 
candid a nature, to hold out to himself hopes 
which she meant not to fulfil. Lost in these vari- 
ous conjectures, he seated himself upon a bank 
of turf, which commanded a view of the lake on 
the one side, and on the other of that front of 
the castle along which the Queen’s apartments were 
situated. 

The sun had now for some time set, and the twi- 
light of May was rapidly fading into a serene night. 
On the lake, the expanded water rose and fell, with 
the slightest and softest influence of a southern 
breeze, which scarcely dimpled the surface over 
which it passed. In the distance was still seen the 
dim outline of the island of Saint Serf, once visited 
by many a sandalled pilgrim, as the blessed spot 
trodden by a man of God — now neglected or vio- 
lated, as the refuge of lazy priests, who had with 
justice been compelled to give place to the sheep 
and the heifers of a protestant baron. 

As Eoland gazed on the dark speck, amid the 
lighter blue of the waters which surrounded it, the 
mazes of polemical discussion again stretched 
themselves before the eye of his mind. Had these 
men justly suffered their exile as licentious drones, 
the robbers, at once, and disgrace of the busy hive ; 
or, had the hand of avarice and rapine expelled 
from the temple, not the ribalds who polluted, but 
the faithful priests who served the shrine in honour 


THE ABBOT. 


153 


and fidelity? The arguments of Henderson, in 
this contemplative hour, rose with double force 
before him, and could scarcely be parried by the 
appeal which the Abbot Ambrosius had made from 
his understanding to his feelings, — an appeal 
which he had felt more forcibly amid the bustle 
of stirring life, than now when his reflections were 
more undisturbed. It required an effort to divert 
his mind from this embarrassing topic; and he 
found that he best succeeded by turning his eyes 
to the front of the tower, watching where a twink- 
ling light still streamed from the casement of 
Catherine Seyton’s apartment, obscured by times 
for a moment, as the shadow of the fair inhabitant 
passed betwixt the taper and the window. At 
length the light was removed or extinguished, and 
that object of speculation was also withdrawn from 
the eyes of the meditative lover. Dare I confess 
the fact, without injuring his character for ever as 
a hero of romance ? These eyes gradually became 
heavy; speculative doubts on the subject of reli- 
gious controversy, and anxious conjectures con- 
cerning the state of his mistress’s affections, became 
confusedly blended together in his musings; the 
fatigues of a busy day prevailed over the harassing 
subjects of contemplation which occupied his mind, 
and he fell fast asleep. 

Sound were his slumbers, until they were sud- 
denly dispelled by the iron tongue of the castle 
bell, which sent its deep and sullen sounds wide 
over the bosom of the lake, and awakened the 
echoes of Bennarty, the hill which descends steeply 
on its southern bank. Roland started up, for this 
bell was always tolled at ten o’clock, as the signal 
for locking the castle gates, and placing the keys 


154 


THE ABBOT. 


under the charge of the seneschal. He therefore 
hastened to the wicket by which the garden com- 
municated with the building, and had the mortifi- 
cation, just as he reached it, to hear the bolt leave 
its sheath with a discordant crash, and enter the 
stone groove of the door-lintel. 

“ Hold, hold, ” cried the page, “ and let me in ere 
you lock the wicket. ” 

The voice of Dryfesdale replied from within, in 
his usual tone of imbittered sullenness, “ The hour 
is past, fair master — you like not the inside of 
these walls — even make it a complete holiday, 
and spend the night as well as the day out of 
bounds. ” 

“ Open the door, ’’ exclaimed the indignant page, 
“ or by Saint Giles T will make thy gold chain 
smoke for it ! ” 

“ Make no alarm here, ” retorted the impene- 
trable Dryfesdale, “ but keep thy sinful oaths and 
silly threats for those that regard them — I do 
mine office, and carry the keys to the seneschal. 
— Adieu, my young master! the cool night air 
will advantage your hot blood. ” 

The steward was right in what he said ; for the 
cooling breeze was very necessary to appease the 
feverish fit of anger which Eoland experienced, nor 
did the remedy succeed for some time. At length, 
after some hasty turns made through the garden, 
exhausting his passion in vain vows of vengeance, 
Eoland Grseme began to be sensible that his situa- 
tion ought rather to be held as naatter of laughter 
than of serious resentment. To one bred a sports- 
man, a night spent in the open air had in it little 
of hardship, and the poor malice of the steward 
seemed more worthy of his contempt than his an- 


THE ABBOT. 


155 


ger. “ I would to God, ” he said, “ that the grim 
old man may always have contented himself with 
such sportive revenge. He often looks as he were 
capable of doing us a darker turn. ” Keturning, 
therefore, to the turf-seat which he had formerly 
occupied, and which was partially sheltered by a 
trim fence of green holly, he drew his mantle 
around him, stretched himself at length on the 
verdant settle, and endeavoured to resume that 
sleep which the castle bell had interrupted to so 
little purpose. 

' Sleep, like other earthly blessings, is niggard of 
its favours when most courted. The more Eoland 
invoked her aid, the further she fled from his eye- 
lids. He had been completely awakened, first, by 
the sounds of the bell, and then by his own aroused 
vivacity of temper, and he found it difficult again 
to compose himself to slumber. At length, when 
his mind was wearied out with a maze of unpleas- 
ing meditation, he succeeded in coaxing himself 
into a broken repose. This was again dispelled by 
the voices of two persons who were walking in the 
garden, the sound of whose conversation, after 
mingling for some time in the page s dreams, at 
length succeeded in awaking him thoroughly. He 
raised himself from his reclining posture in the 
utmost astonishment, which the circumstance of 
hearing two persons at that late hour conversing 
on the outside of the watchfully guarded Castle of 
Lochleven, was so well calculated to excite. His 
first thought was of supernatural beings ; his next, 
upon some attempt on the part of Queen Mary s 
friends and followers ; his last was, that George of 
Douglas, possessed of the keys, and having the 
means of ingress and egress at pleasure, was avail- 


156 


THE ABBOT. 


ing himself of his office to hold a rendezvous with 
Catherine Seyton in the castle garden. He was 
confirmed in this opinion by the tone of the voice, 
which asked in a low whisper, “ Whether all was 
ready ? ” 


CHAPTER X. 


In some breasts passion lies conceal’d and silent, 

Like war’s swart powder in a castle vault, 

Until occasion, like the linstock, lights it : 

Then comes at once the lightning and the thunder, 

And distant echoes tell that all is rent asunder. 

Old Play, 

Roland Gr^bme, availing himself of a breach in 
the holly screen, and of the assistance of the 
full moon, which was now arisen, had a perfect 
opportunity, himself unobserved, to reconnoitre the 
persons and the motions of those by whom his rest 
had been thus unexpectedly disturbed; and his 
observations confirmed his jealous apprehensions. 
They stood together in close and earnest conversa- 
tion within four yards of the place of his retreat, 
and he could easily recognise the tall form and 
deep voice of Douglas, and the no less remarkable 
dress and tone of the pa^ge at the hostelry of Saint 
Michael’s. 

" I have been at the door of the page’s apart- 
ment, ” said Douglas, " but he is not there, or he 
will not answer. It is fast bolted on the inside, 
as is the custom, and we cannot pass through it — 
and what his silence may bode I know not. ” 

" You have trusted him too far, ” said the other ; 
" a feather-headed coxcomb, upon whose change- 
able mind and hot brain there is no making an 
abiding impression. ” 


IS8 


THE ABBOT. 


" It was not I who was willing to trust him, " 
said Douglas ; “ but I was assured he would prove 

friendly when called upon — for ” Here he 

spoke so low that Eoland lost the tenor of his 
words, which was the more provoking, as he was 
fully aware that he was himself the subject of 
their conversation. 

“ Nay, ” replied the stranger, more aloud, “ I 
have on my side put him off with fair words, 
which make fools fain — but now, if you distrust 
him at the push, deal with him with your dagger, 
and so make open passage. ” 

“ That were too rash, ” said Douglas ; " and, be- 
sides, as I told you, the door of his -apartment is 
shut and bolted. I will essay again to waken him. ” 

Graeme instantly comprehended, that the ladies, 
having been somehow made aware of his being in 
the garden, had secured the door of the outer room 
in which he usually slept, as a sort of sentinel 
upon that only access to the Queen’s apartments. 
But then, how came Catherine Seyton to be abroad, 
if the Queen and the other lady were still within 
their chambers, and the access to them locked and 
bolted ? — “I will be instantly at the bottom of 
these mysteries, ” he said, “ and then thank Mrs. 
Catherine, if this be really she, for the kind use 
which she exhorted Douglas to make of his dagger 
— they seek me, as I comprehend, and they shall 
not seek me in vain. ” 

Douglas had by this time re-entered the castle 
by the wicket, which was now open. The stran- 
ger stood alone in the garden walk, his arms folded 
on his breast, and his eyes cast impatiently up 
to the moon, as if accusing her of betraying him 
by the magnificence of her lustre. In a moment 







THE ABBOT. 


*59 


Eoland Grseme stood before him — “A goodly 
night, ” he said, “ Mrs. Catherine, for a young lady 
to stray forth in disguise, and to meet with men 
in an orchard ! ” 

“ Hush ! ” said the stranger page, “ hush, thou 
foolish patch, and tell us in a word if thou art 
friend or foe. ” 

“ How should I be friend to one who deceives me 
by fair words, and who would have Douglas deal 
with me with his poniard ? ” replied Eoland. 

" The fiend receive George of Douglas and thee 
too, thou born madcap and sworn marplot ! ” said 
the other ; “ we shall be discovered, and then death 
is the word. ” 

“ Catherine, ” said the page, “ you have dealt 
falsely and cruelly with me, and the moment of 
explanation is now come — neither it nor you shall 
escape me. ” 

“ Madman ! ” said the stranger, " I am neither 
Kate nor Catherine — the moon shines bright 
enough surely to know the hart from the hind. ” 

“ That shift shall not serve you, fair mistress, ” 
said the page, laying hold on the lap of the stran- 
ger’s cloak ; “ this time, at least, I will know with 
whom I deal. ” 

“ Unhand me, ” said she, endeavouring to extri- 
cate herself from his grasp ; and in a tone where 
anger seemed to contend with a desire to laugh, 
“ use you so little discretion towards a daughter 
of Seyton ? ” 

But as Eoland, encouraged perhaps by her risi- 
bility to suppose his violence was not unpardonably 
offensive, kept hold on her mantle, she said, in a 
sterner tone of unmixed resentment, — " Madman, 
let me go! — there is life and death in this mo- 


i6o 


THE ABBOT. 


ment — I would not willingly hurt thee, and yet 
beware ! ” 

As she spoke she made a sudden effort to escape, 
and in doing so, a pistol, which she carried in her 
hand or about her person, went off. 

This warlike sound instantly awakened the well- 
warded castle. The warder blew his horn, and 
began to toll the castle bell, crying out at the 
same time, “Fie, treason! treason! cry all! cry 
all ! ” 

The apparition of Catherine Seyton, which the 
page had let loose in the first moment of astonish- 
ment, vanished in darkness, but the plash of oars 
was heard, and in a second or two, five or six 
harquebusses and a falconet were fired from the 
battlements of the castle successively, as if lev- 
elled at some object on the water. Confounded 
with these incidents, no way for Catherine’s pro- 
tection (supposing her to be in the boat which he 
had heard put from the shore) occurred to Koland, 
save to have recourse to George of Douglas. He 
hastened for this purpose towards the apartment of 
the Queen, whence he heard loud voices and much 
trampling of feet. When he entered, he found 
himself added to a confused and astonished group, 
which, assembled in that apartment, stood gazing 
upon each other. At the upper end of the room 
stood the Queen, equipped as for a journey, and 
attended not only by the Lady Fleming, but by 
the omnipresent Catherine Seyton, dressed in the 
habit of her own sex, and bearing in her hand the 
casket in which Mary kept such jewels as she had 
been permitted to retain. At the other end of the 
hall was the Lady of Lochleven, hastily dressed, 
as one startled from slumber by the sudden alarm, 


THE ABBOT. 


i6i 


and surrounded by domestics, some bearing torches, 
others holding naked swords, partisans, pistols, oi 
such other weapons as they had caught up in the 
hurry of a night alarm. Betwixt these two parties 
stood George of Douglas, his arms folded on his 
breast, his eyes bent on the ground, like a criminal 
who knows not how*to deny, yet continues unwill- 
ing to avow, the guilt in which he has been 
detected. 

" Speak, George of Douglas, ” said the Lady of 
Lochleven ; " speak, and clear the horrid suspicion 
which rests on thy name. Say, ‘ A Dougla's was 
never faithless to his trust, and I am a Douglas. * 
Say this, my dearest son, and it is all I ask thee 
to say to clear thy name, even under such a foul 
charge. Say it was but the wile of these unhappy 
women, and this false boy, which plotted an es- 
cape so fatal to Scotland — so destructive to thy 
father’s house. ” 

“ Madam, ” said old Dryfesdale the steward, 
“ this much do I say for this silly page, that he 
could not be accessary to unlocking the doors, 
since I myself this night bolted him out of the 
castle. Whoever limned this nightpiece, the lad’s 
share in it seems to have been small. ” 

“ Thou liest, Dryfesdale, ” said the Lady, " and 
wouldst throw the blame on thy master’s house, to 
save the worthless life of a gipsy boy. ” 

“ His death were more desirable to me than his 
life, ” answered the steward, sullenly ; “ but the 
truth is the truth. ” 

At these words Douglas raised his head, drew 
up his figure to its full height, and spoke boldly 
and sedately, as one whose resolution was taken. 
“ Let no life be endangered for me. I alone ” — 

TOL. II. — 11 


162 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Douglas, ” said the Queen, interrupting him, 
“ art thou mad ? Speak not, I charge you. ” 

“ Madam,” he replied, bowing with the deepest 
respect, “ gladly would I obey your commands, but 
they must have a victim, and let it be the true one. 

— Yes, madam, ” he continued, addressing the Lady 
of Lochleven, “ I alone am guilty in this matter. 
If the word of a Douglas has yet any weight with 
you, believe me that this boy is innocent ; and on 
your conscience I charge you, do him no wrong : 
nor let the Queen suffer hardship for embracing 
the opportunity of freedom which sincere loyalty 

— which a sentiment yet deeper — offered to her 
acceptance. Yes ! 1 had planned the escape of the 
most beautiful, the most persecuted of women ; and 
far from regretting that I, for a while, deceived the 
malice of her enemies, I glory in it, and am most 
willing to yield up life itself in her cause. ” 

Now, may God have compassion on my age, ” 
said the Lady of Lochleven, “ and enable me to 
bear this load of affliction ! O Princess, born in a 
luckless hour, when will you cease to be the in- 
strument of seduction and of ruin to all who 
approach you ! 0 ancient house of Lochleven, 

famed so long for birth and honour, evil was the 
hour which brought the deceiver under thy roof ! ” 

“ Say not so, madam, ” replied her grandson ; 
“ the old honours of the Douglas line will be out- 
shone, when one of its descendants dies for the 
most injured of queens — for the most lovely of 
women. ” 

“ Douglas, ” said the Queen, “ must I at this mo- 
ment — ay, even at this moment, when I may lose a 
faithful subject for ever, chide thee for forgetti^^ 
what is due to me as thy Queen?” 


THE ABBOT. 


163 


“ Wretcned boy, ” said the distracted Lady of 
Lochleven, “ hast thou fallen even thus far into 
the snare of this Moabitish woman ? — hast thou 
bartered thy name, thy allegiance, thy knightly 
oath, thy duty to thy parents, thy country, and 
thy God, for a feigned tear, or a sickly smile, from 
lips which flattered the infirm Francis — lured to 
death the idiot Darnley — read luscious poetry 
with the minion Chastelar — mingled in the lays 
of love which were sung by the beggar Eizzio — 
and which were joined in rapture to those of the 
foul and licentious Both well ? ” 

“ Blaspheme not, madam ! ” said Douglas ; — " nor 
you, fair Queen, and virtuous as fair, chide at this 
moment the presumption of thy vassal ! Think not 
that the mere devotion of a subject could have 
moved me to the part I have been performing. 
Well you deserve that each of your lieges should 
die for you ; but I have done more — have done 
that to which love alone could compel a Douglas — 
I have dissembled. Farewell, then. Queen of all 
hearts, and Empress of that of Douglas ! — When 
you are freed from this vile bondage — as freed 
you shall be, if justice remains in Heaven — and 
when you load with honours and titles the happy 
man who shall deliver you, cast one thought on 
him whose heart would have despised every re- 
ward for a kiss of your hand — cast one thought on 
his fidelity, and drop one tear on his grave. ” And 
throwing himself at her feet, he seized her hand, 
and pressed it to his lips. 

" This before my face ! ” exclaimed the Lady of 
Lochleven — " wilt thou court thy adulterous par- 
amour before the eyes of a parent? — Tear them 
asunder, and put him under strict ward! Seize 


THE ABBOT. 


164 

him, upon your lives ! ” she added, seeing that her 
attendants looked on each other with hesitation. 

“ They are doubtful, ” said Mary. “ Save thy- 
self, Douglas, I command thee ! ” 

He started, up from the floor, and only exclaim- 
ing, " My life or death are yours, and at your dis- 
posal ! ” — drew his sword, and broke through those 
who stood betwixt him and the door. The enthu- 
siasm of his onset was too sudden and too lively to 
have been resisted by any thing short of the most 
decided opposition ; and as he was both loved and 
feared by his father’s vassals, none of them would 
offer him any actual injury. 

The Lady of Lochleven stood astonished at his 
sudden escape — “ Am I surrounded, ” she said, 
“ by traitors ? Upon him, villains ! — pursue, stab, 
(fut him down ! ” 

“ He cannot leave the island, madam, ” said 
Dryfesdale, interfering ; " I have the key of the 
boat-chain. ” 

But two or three voices of those who pursued 
from curiosity, or command of their mistress, ex- 
claimed from below, that he had cast himself into 
the lake. 

“ Brave Douglas still ! ” exclaimed the Queen — 
" 0, true and noble heart, that prefers death to 
imprisonment ! ” 

“ Fire upon himl ” said the Lady of Lochleven; 
“ if there be here a true servant of his father, let 
him shoot the runagate dead, and let the lake cover 
our shame ! ” 

The report of a gun or two was heard, but they 
were probably shot rather to obey the Lady, than 
with any purpose of hitting the mark ; and Eandal 
immediately entering, said, that Master George had 


THE ABBOT. 165 

been taken up by a boat from the castle, which lay 
at a little distance. 

“ Man a barge, and pursue them ! ” said the 
Lady. 

" It were quite vain, ” said Eandal ; “ by this 
time they are half way to shore, and a cloud has 
come over the moon. ” 

“ And has the traitor then escaped ? ” said the 
Lady, pressing her hands against her forehead with 
a gesture of despair ; “ the honour of our house is 
for ever gone, and all will be deemed accomplices 
in this base treachery 1” 

“ Lady of Lochleven, ” said Mary, advancing 
towards her, “ you have this night cut off my fair- 
est hopes — You have turned my expected freedom 
into bondage, and dashed away the cup of joy in 
the. very instant I was advancing it to my lips — 
and yet I feel for your sorrow the pity that you 
deny to mine — Gladly would I comfort you if I 
might; but as I may not, I would at least part 
from you in charity. ” 

“ Away, proud woman ! ” said the Lady ; “ who 
ever knew so well as thou to deal the deepest 
wounds under the pretence of kindness and cour- 
tesy ? — ^V^ho, since the great traitor, could ever so 
betray with a kiss ? ” 

“ Lady Douglas of Lochleven, ” said the Queen, 
" in this moment thou canst not offend me — no, 
not even by thy coarse and unwomanly language, 
held to me in the presence of menials and armed 
retainers. I have this night owed so much to one 
member of the house of Lochleven, as to cancel 
whatever its mistress can do or say in the wild- 
ness of her passion. ” 

“ We are bounden to you. Princess, ” said Lady 


/66 


THE ABBOT. 


Lochleven, putting a strong constraint on herself, 
and passing from her tone of violence to that of 
hitter irony ; “ our poor house hath been but sel- 
dom graced with royal smiles, and will hardly, 
with my choice, exchange their rough honesty for 
such court-honour as Mary of Scotland has now to 
bestow. ” 

" They, ” replied Mary, “ who knew so well how 
to take, may think themselves excused from the 
obligation implied in receiving. And that I have 
now little to offer, is the fault of the Douglasses 
and their allies. ” 

" Fear nothing, madam, ” replied the Lady of 
Lochleven, in the same bitter tone," you retain an 
exchequer which neither your own prodigality can 
drain, nor your offended country deprive you of. 
While you have fair words and delusive smiles at 
command, you need no other bribes to lure youth 
to folly. ” 

The Queen cast a not ungratified glance on a 
large mirror, which, hanging on one side of the 
apartment, and illuminated by the torch-light, re- 
flected her beautiful face and person. “ Our host- 
ess grows complaisant, ” she said, “ my Fleming ; 
we had not thought that grief and captivity had 
left us so well stored with that sort of wealth 
which ladies prize most dearly. ” 

" Your Grace will drive this severe woman fran- 
tic, ” said Fleming, in a low tone. " On my knees 
I implore you to remember she is already dread- 
fully offended, and that we are in her power. ” 

" I will not spare her, Fleming, ” answered the 
Queen ; " it is against my nature. She returned 
my honest sympathy with insult and abuse, and I 
will gall her in return — If her words are too 


THE ABBOT. 167 

blunt for answer, let her use her poniard if she 
dare ! ” 

“ The Lady Lochleven, ” said the Lady Fleming 
aloud, “ would surely do well now to withdraw, 
and to leave her Grace to repose. ” 

“ Ay, ” replied the Lady, " or to leave her Grace, 
and her Grace’s minions, to think what silly fly 
they may next wrap their meshes about. My eld- 
, est son is a widower — were he not more worthy 
the flattering ii opes with which you have seduced 
his brother ? — True, the yoke of marriage has been 
already thrice fitted on — but the church of Eome 
calls it a sacrament, and its votaries may deem it 
one in which they cannot too often participate. ” 

“ And the votaries of the church of Geneva, ” re- 
plied Mary, colouring with indignation, “ as they 
deem marriage no sacrament, are said at times to 
dispense with the holy ceremony.” — Then, as if 
afraid of the consequences of this home allusion 
to the errors of Lady Lochleven ’s early life, the 
Queen added, “ Come, my Fleming, we grace her 
too much by this altercation ; we will to our sleep- 
ing apartment. If she would disturb us again to- 
night, she must cause the door to be forced. ” So 
saying, she retired to her bedroom, followed by her 
two women. Lady Lochleven, stunned as it were 
by this last sarcasm, and not the less deeply in- 
censed that she had drawn it upon herself, remained 
like a statue on the spot which she had occupied 
when she received an affront so flagrant. Dryfes- 
dale and Kandal endeavoured to rouse her to recol- 
lection by questions.. 

“ What is your honourable Ladyship’s pleasure 
in the premises ? ” 

“ Shall we not double the sentinels, and place 


i68 


THE ABBOT. 


one upon the boats and another in the garden ? " 
said Eandal. 

“ Would you that dispatches were sent to Sir 
William at Edinburgh, to acquaint him with what 
has happened ? ” demanded Dryfesdale ; " and ought 
not the place of Kinross to be alarmed, lest there 
be force upon the shores of the lake ? ” 

“ Do all as thou wilt, ” said the Lady, collecting 
herself, and about to depart. “ Thou hast the . 
name of a good soldier, Dryfesdale, take all pre- 
cautions. — Sacred Heaven ! that I should be thus 
openly insulted ! ” 

“Would it be your pleasure,” said Dryfesdale, 
hesitating, “ that this person — this lady — be 
more severely restrained ? ” 

“ No, vassal ! ” answered the Lady, indignantly, 

“ my revenge stoops not to so low a gratification. 
But I will have more worthy vengeance, or the 
tomb of my ancestors shall cover my shame f ” 

“ And you shall have it, madam, ” replied Dryfes- 
dale — “ Ere two suns go down, you shall term 
yourself amply revenged. ” 

The Lady made no answer — perhaps did not 
hear his words, as she presently left the apart- 
ment. By the command of Dryfesdale, the rest of 
the attendants were dismissed, some to do the 
duty of guard, others to their repose. The steward 
himself remained after they had all departed ; and 
Boland Graeme, who was alone in the apartment, 
was surprised to see the old soldier advance towards 
him with an air of greater cordiality than he had 
ever before assumed to him, but which sat ill on 
his scowling features. 

“ Youth, ” he said, “ I have done thee some wrong 
— it is thine own fault, for thy behaviour hath 


THE ABBOT. 


169 

seemed as light to me as the feather thou wearest 
in thy hat ; and surely thy fantastic apparel, and 
idle humour of mirth and folly, have made me 
construe thee something harshly. But I saw this 
night from my casement, (as I looked out to see 
how thou hadst disposed of thyself in the garden,) 
Lsaw, I say, the true efforts which thou didst make 
to detain the companion of the perfidy of him who 
is no longer worthy to be called by his father’s 
name, but must be cut off from his house like a 
rotten branch. I was just about to come to thy 
assistance when the pistol went off ; and the war- 
der (a false knave, whom I suspect to be bribed 
for the nonce) saw himself forced to give the 
alarm, which, perchance, till then he had wilfully 
withheld. To atone, therefore, for my injustice 
towards you, I would willingly render you a cour- 
tesy, if you would accept of it from my hands. ” 

• " May I first crave to know what it is ? ” replied 
the page. 

“ Simply. to carry the news of this discovery to 
Holyrood, where thou mayst do thyself much grace, 
as well with the Earl of Morton and the Eegent 
himself, as with Sir William Douglas, seeing thou 
hast seen the matter from end to end, and borne 
faithful part therein. The making thine own for- 
tune will be thus lodged in thine own hand, when 
I trust thou wilt estrange thyself from foolish 
vanities, and learn to walk in this world as one 
who thinks upon the next. ” 

“ Sir Steward, ” said Eoland Graeme, " I thank 
you for your courtesy, but I may not do your er- 
rand. I pass that I am the Queen’s sworn servant, 
and may not be of counsel against her. But, set- 
ting this apart, methinks it were a bad road to Sil 


170 


THE ABBOT. 


William of Lochleven’s favour, to be the first to 
tell him of his son’s defection — neither would the 
Kegent be oyer well pleased to hear the infidelity of 
his vassal, nor Morton to learn the falsehood of 
his kinsman. ” 

“ Um ! ” said the steward, making that inarticu- 
late sound which expresses surprise mingled with 
displeasure. “ Nay, then, even fly where ye list ; 
for, giddy-pated as ye may be, you know how to 
bear you in the world. ” 

“ I will show you my system is less selfish than 
ye think for, ” said the page ; “ for I hold truth and 
mirth to be better than gravity and cunning — ay, 
and in the end to be a match for them. — You 
never loved me less. Sir Steward, than you do at 
this moment. I know you will give me no real 
confidence, and I am resolved to accept no false 
protestations as current coin. Eesume your old 
course — suspect me as much and watch me ag 
closely as you will, I bid you defiance — you have 
met with your match. ” 

“ By Heaven, young man, ” said the steward, 
with a look of bitter malignity, " if thou darest to 
attempt any treachery towards the House of Loch- 
leven, thy head shall blacken in the sun from the 
warder’s turret ! ” 

“ He cannot commit treachery who refuses trust, ” 
said the page ; “ and for my head, it stands as se- 
curely on mine own shoulders, as on any turret 
that ever mason built. ” 

“ Farewell, thou prating and speckled pie,” said 
iDryfesdale, “ that art so vain of thine- idle tongue 
and variegated coat ! Beware trap and lime-twig. " 

“ And fare thee well, thou hoarse old raven, ” 
answered the page ; “ thy solemn flight, sable hue, 


THE ABBOT. 


171 

and deep croak, are no charms against bird -bolt or 
bail-shot, and that thou mayst find — It is open 
war betwixt us, each for the cause of our mistress, 
and God show the right ! ” 

" Amen, and defend his own people ! ” said the 
steward. “ I will let my mistress know what addi- 
tion thou hast made to this mess of traitors. Good 
night. Monsieur Featherpate. ” 

“ Good night, Seignior Sowersby, “ replied the 
page ; and, when the old man departed, he betook 
himself to rest. 


CHAPTEE XL 


Poifon’d — ill fare ! — dead, forsook, cast off I 

King John. 

However weary Boland Graeme might be of the 
Castle of Lochleven — however much he might 
wish that the plan for Mary's escape had been per- 
fected, I question if he ever awoke with more pleas- 
ing feelings than on the morning after George 
Douglas's plan for accomplishing her deliverance 
had been frustrated. In the first place, he had the 
clearest conviction that he had misunderstood the 
innuendo of the Abbot, and that the affections of 
Douglas were fixed, not on Catherine Seyton, but 
on the Queen ; and in the second place, from the 
sort of explanation which had taken place betwixt 
the steward and him, he felt himself at liberty, 
without any breach of honour towards the family of 
Lochleven, to contribute his best aid to any scheme 
which should in future be formed for the Queen's 
escape ; and, independently of the good-will which 
he himself had to the enterprise, he knew he could 
find no surer road to the favour of Catherine Sey- 
ton. He now sought but an opportunity to inform 
her that he had dedicated himself to this task, and 
fortune was propitious in affording him one which 
was unusually favourable. 

At the ordinary hour of breakfast, it was intro- 
duced by the steward with his usual forms, who, 
as soon as it was placed on the board in the inner 


THE ABBOT. 


173 


apartment, said to Roland Graeme, with a glance of 
sarcastic import, “ I leave you, my young sir, to 
do the office of sewer — it has been too long ren- 
dered to the Lady Mary by one belonging to the 
house of Douglas/* 

“ Were it the prime and principal who ever bore 
the name,” said Roland, the office were an honour 
to him/* 

The steward departed without replying to this 
bravade, otherwise than by a dark look of scorn. 
Graeme, thus left alone, busied himself as one en- 
gaged in a labour of love, to imitate, as well as he 
could, the grace and courtesy with which George 
of Douglas was wont to render his ceremonial ser- 
vice at meals to the queen of Scotland. There was 
more than youthful vanity — there was a generous 
devotion in the feeling with which he took up the 
task, as a brave soldier assumes the place of a com- 
rade who has fallen in the front of battle. “ I am 
now,” he said, “their only champion; and, come 
weal, come woe, I will be, to the best of my skill 
and power, as faithful, as trustworthy, as brave, as 
any Douglas of them all could have been.** 

At this moment Catherine Seyton entered alone, 
contrary to her custom ; and not less contrary to her 
custom, she entered with her kerchief at her eyes. 
Roland Grseme approached her with beating heart 
and with downcast eyes, and asked her in a low and 
hesitating voice, whether the Queen were well ? 

“ Can you suppose it ? ” said Catherine ; “ think 
you her heart and body are framed of steel and 
iron, to endure the cruel disappointment of yester 
even, and the infamous taunts of yonder puritanic 
hag? — Would to God that I were a man, to aid 
her more effectually 1 ** 


174 


THE ABBOT. 


" If those who carry pistols, and batons, and 
poniards,” said the page, “ are not men, they are at 
least Amazons ; and that is as formidable.” 

“You are welcome to the flash of your wit, sir,” 
replied the damsel; “I am neither in spirits to 
enjoy, or to reply to it ” 

“ Well, then,” said the page, “ list to me in all 
serious truth. And, flrst, let me say, that the gear 
last night had been smoother, had you taken me 
into your counsels.” 

“ And so we meant ; but who could have guessed 
that Master Page should choose to pass all night 
in the garden, like some moon-stricken knight in a 
Spanish romance — instead of being in his bedroom, 
when Douglas came to hold communication with 
him on our project ? ” 

“ And why,” said the page, “ defer to so late a 
moment, so important a confidence ? ” 

“ Because your communications with Henderson, 
and — with pardon — the natural impetuosity and 
fickleness of your disposition, made us dread to im 
trust you with a secret of such consequence, till the 
last moment ? ” 

“And why at the last moment ? ” said the page, 
offended at this frank avowal ; “ why at that, or any 
other moment, since I had the misfortune to incur 
so much suspicion ? ” 

“Nay — now you are angry again,” said Cathe- 
rine ; “ and to serve you aright I should break off this 
talk ; but I will be magnanimous, and answer your 
question. Know, then, our reason for trusting you 
was twofold. In the first place, we could scarce 
avoid it, since you slept in the room through which 
we had to pass. In th^ second place ” 

“Nay,” said the page, “you may dispense with 


THE ABBOT. 


I7S 

a second reason, when the first makes your confi- 
dence in me a case of necessity.” 

“ Good now, hold thy peace,” said Catherine. 
“ In the second place, as I said before, there is one 
foolish person among us, who believes that Eoland 
Graeme’s heart is warm, though his head is giddy 

— that his blood is pure, though it boils too hastily 

— and that his faith and honour are true as the load- 
star, though his tongue sometimes is far less than 
discreet.” 

This avowal Catherine repeated in a low tone, 
with her eyes fixed on the floor, as if she shunned 
the glance of Eoland while she suffered it to escape 
her lips — “ And this single friend,” exclaimed the 
youth in rapture ; “ this only one who. would do 
justice to the poor Eoland Graeme, and whose own 
generous heart taught her to distinguish between 
follies of the brain and faults of the heart — Will 
you not tell me, dearest Catherine, to whom I owe 
my most grateful, my most lieartfelt thanks ? ” 

“ Nay,” said Catherine, with her eyes still fixed on 
the ground, “if your own heart tell you not ” 

“ Dearest Catherine ! ” said the page, seizing upon 
her hand, and kneeling on one knee. 

“If your own heart, I say, tell you not,” said 
Catherine, gently disengaging her hand, “ it is very 
ungrateful ; for since the maternal kindness of the 
Lady Fleming ” 

The page started on his feet. “ By Heaven, 
Catherine, your tongue wears as many disguises as 
your person ! But you only mock me, cruel girl. 
You know the Lady Fleming has no more regard 
for any one, than hath the forlorn princess who is 
wrought into yonder piece of old figured court- 
tapestry.” 


176 


THE ABBOT. 


“It may be so,” said Catherine Seyton, “but 
you should not speak so loud.” 

“ Pshaw 1 ” answered the page, but at the same 
time lowering his voice, “ she cares for no one but 
herself and the Queen. And you know, besides, 
there is no one of you whose opinion I value, if I 
have not your own. No — not that of Queen 
Mary herself.” 

“The more shame for you, if it be so,” said 
Catherine, with great composure. 

“ Nay, but, fair Catherine,” said the page, “ why 
will you thus damp my ardour, when I am devot- 
ing myself, body and soul, to the cause of your 
mistress ? ” 

“ It is because in doing so,” said Catherine, “ you 
debase a cause so noble, by naming along with it any 
lower or more selfish motive. Believe me,” she said, 
with kindling eyes, and while the blood mantled 
on her cheek, “they think vilely and falsely of 
women — I mean of those who deserve the name — 
who deem that they love the gratification of their 
vanity, or the mean purpose of engrossing a lover’s 
admiration and affection, better than they love the 
virtue and honour of the man they may be brought 
to prefer. He that serves his religion, his prince, 
and his country, with ardour and devotion, need not 
plead his cause with the commonplace rant of ro- 
mantic passion — the woman whom he honours with 
his love, becomes his debtor, and her corresponding 
affection is engaged to repay his glorious toil.” 

“You hold a glorious prize for such toil,” said 
the youth, bending his eyes on her with enthusiasm. 

“ Only a heart which knows how to value it,” said 
Catherine. “ He that should free this injured Prin- 
cess from these dungeons, and set her at liberty 


THE ABBOT. 


177 


among her loyal and warlike nobles, whose hearts 
are burning to welcome her — where is the maiden 
in Scotland whom the love of such a hero would 
not honour, were she sprung from the blood royal 
of the land, and he the ojffspring of the poorest 
cottager that ever held a plough ! ” 

“I am determined,” said Eoland, “to take the 
adventure. Tell me first, however, fair Catherine, 
and speak it as if you were confessing to the priest 
— this poor Queen, I know she is unhappy — but, 
Catherine, do you hold her innocent? She is 
accused of murder.” 

“ Do I hold the lamb guilty, because it is assailed 
by the wolf ? ” answered Catherine ; “do I hold 
yonder sun polluted, because an earth-damp sullies 
his beams ? ” 

The page sighed and looked down. “ Would my 
conviction were as deep as thine I But one thing is 
clear, that in this captivity she hath wrong — She 
rendered herself up on a capitulation, and the terms 
have been refused her — I will embrace her quarrel 
to the death I” 

“Will you — will you indeed?” said Catherine, 
taking his hand in her turn. “0 be but firm in 
mind, as thou art bold in deed and quick in resolu- 
tion ; keep but thy plighted faith, and after ages 
shall honour thee as the saviour of Scotland ! ” 

“ But when I have toiled successfully to win that 
Leah, Honour, thou wilt not, my Catherine,” said 
the page, “condemn me to a new term of service 
for that Eachel, Love ? ” 

“ Of that,” said Catherine, again extricating her 
hand from his grasp, “ we shall have full time to 
speak; but Honour is the elder sister, and must 
be won the first.” 

roL. II. — 12 


178 


THE ABBOT. 


“ I may not win her/’ answered the page ; “ but 
I will venture fairly for her, and man can do no more. 
And know, fair Catherine, — for you shall see the 
very secret thought' of my heart, — that not Honour 
only — not only that other and fairer sister, whom 
you frown on me for so much as mentioning — but 
the stern commands of duty also, compel me to aid 
the Queen’s deliverance.” 

“ Indeed ! ’’ said Catherine : “ you were wont to 
have doubts on that matter.” 

“Ay, but her life was not then threatened,” 
replied Koland. 

“And is it now more endangered than hereto- 
fore ? ” asked Catherine Seyton, in anxious terror. 

‘ Be not alarmed,” said the page * “ but you heard 
the terms on which your royal mistress parted with 
the Lady of Lochleven ? ” 

“ Too well — but too well,” said Catherine ; “ alas ! 
that she cannot rule her princely resentment, and 
refrain from encounters like these ! ” 

“ That hath passed betwixt them,” said Eoland, 
“for which woman never forgives woman. I saw 
the Lady’s brow turn pale, and then black, when, 
before all the menzie, and in her moment of power, 
the Queen humbled her to the dust by taxing her 
with her shame. And I heard the oath of deadly 
resentment and revenge which she muttered in the 
ear of one, who by his answer will, I judge, be but 
too ready an executioner of her will.” 

“ You terrify me,” said Catherine. 

“ Do not so take it — call up the masculine part 
of your spirit — we will counteract and defeat her 
plans, be they dangerous as they may. Why do you 
look upon me thus, and weep ? ” 

*‘Alas!” said Catherine, “because you stand 


THE ABBOT. 


179 

there before me a living and breathing man, in all 
the adventurous glow and enterprise of youth, yet 
still possessing the frolic spirits of childhood — there 
you stand, full alike of generous enterprise and 
childish recklessness ; and if to-day, to-morrcw, or 
some such brief space, you lie a mangled and life- 
less corpse upon the floor of these hateful dungeons, 
who but Catherine Seyton will be the cause of your 
brave and gay career being broken short as you start 
from the goal ? Alas ! she whom you have chosen 
to twine your wreath, may too probably have to 
work your shroud! ’’ 

“And be it so. Catherine,'^ said the page, in the 
full glow cf youthful enthusiasm; “and do thou 
work my shroud! and if thou grace it with such 
tears as fall now at the thought, it will honour my 
remains more than an earl’s mantle would my living 
body. But shame on this faintness of heart! the 
time craves a firmer mood — Be a woman, Catherine, 
or rather be a man — thou canst be a man if thou 
wilt.” 

Catherine dried her tears, and endeavoured to 
smile. 

“You must not ask me,” she said, “about that 
which so much disturbs your mind ; you shall know 
all in time — nay. you should know all now, but 
that Hush ! here comes the Queen.” 

Mary entered from her apartment, paler than 
usual, and apparently exhausted by a sleepless night, 
and by the painful thoughts which had ill supplied 
the place of repose ; yet the languor of her looks 
was so far from impairing her beauty, that it only 
substituted the frail delicacy of the lovely woman 
for the majestic grace of the Queen. Contrary to 
her wont, her toilette had been very hastily dis* 


l8o 


THE ABBOT. 


patched, and her hair, which was usually dressed by 
Lady Fleming with great care, escaping from be- 
neath the head-tire, which had been hastily adjusted, 
fell, in long and luxuriant tresses of Nature’s own 
curling, over a neck and bosom which were some- 
what less carefully veiled than usual. 

As she stepped over the threshold of her apart- 
ment, Catherine, hastily drying her tears, ran to 
meet her royal mistress, and having first kneeled 
at her feet, and kissed her hand, instantly rose, and 
placing herself on the other side of the Queen, seemed 
anxious to divide with the Lady Fleming the 
honour of supporting and assisting her. The page, 
on his part, advanced and put in order the chair of 
state, which she usually occupied, and having placed 
the cushion and footstool for her accommodation, 
stepped back, and stood ready for service in the 
place usually occupied by his predecessor, the young 
Seneschal. Mary’s eye rested an instant on him, 
and could not but remark the change of persons. 
Hers was not the female heart which could refuse 
compassion, at least, to a gallant youth who had 
suffered in her cause, although he had been guided 
in his enterprise by a too presumptuous passion; 
and the words “ Poor Douglas ! ” escaped from her 
lips, perhaps unconsciously, as she leant herself 
back in her chair, and put the kerchief to her 
eyes. 

“Yes, gracious madam,’’ said Catherine, assum- 
ing a cheerful manner, in order to cheer her sove- 
reign, “ our gallant knight is indeed banished — the 
adventure was not reserved for him; but he has 
left behind him a youthful Esquire, as much devo- 
ted to your Grace’s service, and who, by me makes 
you tender of his hand and sword.” 


THE ABBOT. 


i8i 

« If they may in aught avail your Grace,” said 
Eoland Graeme, bowing profoundly. 

“ Alas ! ” said the Queen, “ what needs this, Cathe- 
rine ? — why prepare new victims to be involved 
in, and overwhelmed by, my cruel fortune ? — were 
we not better cease to struggle, and ourselves sink 
in the tide without further resistance, than thus drag 
into destruction with us every generous heart which 
makes an effort in our favour ? — I have had but too 
much of plot and intrigue around me, since I was 
stretched an orphan child in my very cradle, while 
contending nobles strove which should rule in the 
name of the unconscious innocent. Surely time it 
were that all this busy and most dangerous coil 
should end. Let me call my prison a convent, and 
my seclusion a voluntary sequestration of myself 
from the world and its ways ! ” 

“Speak not thus, madam, before your faithful 
servants,” said Catherine, “ to discourage their zeal 
at once, and to break their hearts. Daughter of 
kings, be not in this hour so unkingly — Come, Ko- 
land, and let us, the youngest of her followers, show 
ourselves worthy of her cause — let us kneel before 
her footstool, and implore her to be her own mag- 
nanimous self.” And leading Eoland Graeme to the 
Queen’s seat, they both kneeled down before her. 
Mary raised herself in her chair, and sat erect, 
while, extending one hand to he kissed by the page, 
she arranged with the other the clustering locks 
which shaded the hold yet lovely brow of the high- 
spirited Catherine. 

“Alas! ma mignone” she said, for so in fond- 
ness she often called her young attendant, “that 
you should thus desperately mix with my unhappy 
fate the fortune of your young lives 1 — Are they not 


182 


THE ABBOT. 


a lovely couple, my Fleming ? and is it not heart- 
rending to think that I must be their ruin ? ” 

“Not so,” said Koland Grseme, “ it is we, gra- 
cious Sovereign, who will be your deliverers.” 

“ Ex orihus parvulorum ! ” said the Queen, look- 
ing upward ; “ if it is by the mouth of these children 
that Heaven calls me to resume the stately thoughts 
which become my birth and my rights, thou wilt 
grant them thy protection, and to me the power of 
rewarding their zeal ! ” — Then turning to Fleming, 
she instantly added, — “ Thou knowest, my friend, 
whether to make those who have served me happy, 
was not ever Mary’s favourite pastime. When I 
have been rebuked by the stern preachers of the 
Calvinistic heresy — when I have seen the fierce 
countenances of my nobles averted from me, has it 
not been because I mixed in the harmless pleasures 
of the young and gay, and rather for the sake of 
their happiness than my own, have mingled in the 
masque, the song, or the dance, with the youth of 
my household ? Well, I repent not of it — though 
Knox termed it sin, and Morton degradation — I 
was happy, because I saw happiness around me ; 
and woe betide the wretched jealousy that can ex- 
tract guilt out of the overflowings of an unguarded 
gaiety ! — Fleming, if we are restored to our throne, 
shall we not have one blithesome day at a blithe- 
some bridal, of which we must now name neither 
the bride nor the bridegroom ? but that bridegroom 
shall have the barony of Blairgowrie, a fair gift 
even for a Queen to give, and that bride’s chaplet 
shall be twined with the fairest pearls that ever were 
found in the depths of Lochlomond ; and thou thy- 
self, Mary Fleming, the best dresser of tires that 
ever busked the tresses of a Queen, and who would 


THE ABBOT. 


183 

scorn to touch those of any woman of lower rank, — 
thou thyself shalt, for my love, twine them into the 
bride’s tresses. — Look, my Fleming, suppose them 
such clustered locks as those of our Catherine, they 
would not put shame upon thy skill.” 

So saying, she passed her hand fondly over the 
head of her youthful favourite, while her more aged 
attendant replied despondently, “ Alas ! madam, your 
thoughts stray far from home.” 

“ They do, my Fleming,” said the Queen ; “ but 
is it well or kind in you to call them back ? — God 
knows, they have kept the perch this night but too 
closely — Come, I will recall the gay vision, were it 
but to punish them. Yes, at that blithesome bridal, 
Mary herself shall forget the weight of sorrows, and 
the toil of state, and herself once more lead a mea- 
sure. — At whose wedding was it that we last danced, 
my Fleming ? I think care has troubled ^my memory 
— yet something of it I should remember — canst 
thou not aid me ? — I know thou canst.” 

“ Alas 1 madam,” replied the lady 

“ What ! ” said Mary, “ wilt thou not help us so 
far ? this is a peevish adherence to thine own graver 
opinion, which holds our talk as folly. But thou 
art court-bred, and wilt well understand me when 
I say, the Queen commands Lady Fleming to tell 
her where she led the last hranlc!' 

With a face deadly pale, and a mien as if she 
were about to sink into the earth, the court-bred 
dame, no longer daring to refuse obedience, faltered 
out — “ Gracious Lady — if my memory err not — 
it was at a masque in Holyrood — at the marriage 
of Sebastian.” {g) 

The unhappy Queen, who had hitherto listened 
with a melancholy smile, provoked by the reluctance 


184 


THE ABBOT. 


with which the Lady Fleming brought out her story, 
at this ill-fated word interrupted her with a shriek 
so wild and loud that the vaulted apartment rang, 
and both Eoland and Catherine sprung to their 
feet in the utmost terror and alarm. Meantime, 
Mary seemed, by the train of horrible ideas thus 
suddenly excited, surprised not only beyond self- 
command, but for the moment beyond the verge of 
reason. 

“ Traitress ! ” she said to the Lady Fleming, " thou 
wouldst slay thy sovereign — Call my French 
guards — A moi ! a moi ! mes Frangais ! — I am be- 
set with traitors in mine own palace — they have 
murdered my husband — Eescue ! rescue ! for the 
Queen of Scotland ! ” she started up from her chair 

— her features, late so exquisitely lovely in their 
paleness, now inflamed with the fury of frenzy, and 
resembling , those of a Bellona. “We will take the 
field ourself,” she said ; “ warn the city — warn Lo- 
thian and Fife — saddle our Spanish barb — and bid 
French Paris see our petronel be charged ! — Better 
to die at the head of our brave Scotsmen, like our 
grandfather at Flodden, than of a broken heart, like 
our ill-starred father ! ” 

“ Be patient — be composed, dearest Sovereign ! ” 
said Catherine ; and then addressing Lady Fleming 
angrily, she added, “ How could you say aught that 
reminded her of her husband ? ” 

The word reached the ear of the unhappy Prin- 
cess, who caught it up, speaking with great rapid- 
ity. “ Husband ! — what husband ? — Hot his most 
Christian Majesty — he is ill at ease — he cannot 
mount on horseback. — Not him of the Lennox 

— but it was the Duke of Orkney thou wouldst 
say.” 


THE ABBOT. 185 

'"For God’s love, madam, be patient ! ” said the 
Lady Fleming. 

But the Queen’s excited imagination could by no 
entreaty be diverted from its course. “ Bid him 
come hither to our aid,” she said, and bring with 
him his lambs, as he calls them — Bowton, Hay of 
Talla, Black Ormiston, and his kinsman Hob — Fie ! 
how swart they are, and how they smell of sulphur ! 
What ! closeted with Morton ? Nay, if the Douglas 
and the Hepburn hatch the complot together, the 
bird, when it breaks the shell, will scare Scotland. 
Will it not, my Fleming ? ” 

“ She grows wilder and wilder,” said Fleming ; “ we 
have too many hearers for these strange words.” 

“ Roland,” said Catherine, “ in the name of God, 
begone! You cannot aid us here — Leave us to deal 
with her alone — Away — away ! ” 

She thrust him to the door of the anteroom ; yet 
even when he had entered that apartment, and shut 
the door, he could still hear the Queen talk in a 
loud and determined tone, as if giving forth orders, 
until at length the voice died away in a feeble and 
continued lamentation. 

At this crisis Catherine entered the anteroom. 
“ Be not too anxious,” she said, the crisis is now 
over ; but keep the door fast — let no one enter 
until she is more composed.” 

“ In the name of God, what does this mean ? ” 
said the page ; “ or what was there in the Lady 
Fleming’s words to excite so wild a transport ? ” 

“ O, the Lady Fleming, the Lady Fleming,” said 
Catherine, repeating the words impatiently ; “ the 
Lady Fleming is a fool — she loves her mistresis, yet 
knows so little how to express her love, that were 
the Queen to ask her for very poison, she would 


i86 


THE ABBOT. 


deem it a point of duty not to resist her commands. 
I could have torn her starched head-tire from her 
formal head — The Queen should have as soon had 
the heart out of my body, as the word Sebastian 
out of my lips — That that piece of weaved tapestry 
should be a woman, and yet not have wit enough to 
tell a lie ! ” 

“And what was this story of Sebastian?” said 
the page. “ By Heaven, Catherine, you are all 
riddles alike ! ” 

“ You are as great a fool as Fleming,” returned 
the impatient maiden ; “ know ye not, that on the 
night of Henry Darnley’s murder, and at the blow- 
ing up of the Kirk of Field, the Queen’s absence 
was owing to her attending on a masque at Holy- 
rood, given by her to grace the marriage of this 
same Sebastian, who, himself a favoured servant, 
married one of her female attendants, who was near 
to her person ? ” 

“ By Saint Giles,” said the page, “ I wonder not 
at her passion, but only marvel by what forgetful- 
ness it was that she could urge the Lady Fleming 
with such a question.” 

“ I cannot account for it,” said Catherine ; “ but 
it seems as if great and violent grief or horror some- 
times obscure the memory, and spread a cloud, like 
that of an exploding cannon, over the circumstances 
with which they are accompanied. But I may not 
stay here, where I came not to moralize with your 
wisdom, but simply to cool my resentment against 
that unwise Lady Fleming, which I think hath now 
somewhat abated, so that I shall endure her pre- 
sence without any desire to damage either her curch 
or vasquine. Meanwhile, keep fast that door — I 
would not for my life that any of these heretics saw 


THE ABBOT. 


187 


her in the unhappy state, which, brought on her as 
it has been by the success of their own diabolical 
plottings, they would not stick to call, in their snuf- 
fling cant, the judgment of Providence.” 

She left the apartment just as the latch of the 
outward door was raised from without. But the 
bolt, which Koland had drawn on the inside, resisted 
the efforts of the person desirous to enter. “ Who 
is there ? ” said Graeme aloud. 

“ It is I,” replied the harsh and yet low voice of 
the steward Dryfesdale. 

“You cannot enter now,” returned the youth. 

“And wherefore?” demanded Dryfesdale, “see- 
ing I come but to do my duty, and enquire what 
mean the shrieks from the apartment of the Moabit- 
ish woman. Wherefore, I say, since such is mine 
errand, can I not enter ? ” 

“Simply,” replied the youth, “because the bolt 
is drawn, and I have no fancy to undo it. I have 
the right side of the door to-day, as you had last 
night.” 

“ Thou art ill-advised, thou malapert boy,” replied 
the steward, “ to speak to me in such fashion ; but 
I shall inform my Lady of thine insolence.” 

“The insolence,” said the page, “is meant for 
thee only, in fair guerdon of thy discourtesy to me. 
For thy Lad/s information, I have answer more 
courteous — you may say that the Queen is ill at 
ease, and desires to be disturbed neither by visits 
nor messages.” 

“ I conjure you, in the name of God,” said the old 
man, with more solemnity in his tone than he had 
hitherto used, “ to let me know if her malady really 
gains power on her ! ” 

“ She will have no aid at your hand, or at your 


THE ABBOT. 


1 88 

Lady’s — wherefore, begone, and trouble us no more 
— we neither want, nor will accept of, aid at your 
hands.” 

With this positive reply, the steward, grumbling 
and dissatisfied, returned down stairs. 


CHAPTER XII 


It is the curse of kings to be attended 
By slaves, who take their humours for a warrant 
To break into the bloody house of life, 

And on the winking of authority 
To understand a law. 

King John. 

The Lady of Lochleven sat alone in her chamber, 
endeavouring with sincere but imperfect zeal, to fix 
her eyes and her attention on the black-letter Bible 
which lay before her, bound in velvet and embroid- 
ery, and adorned with massive silver clasps and 
knosps. But she found her utmost efforts unable 
to withdraw her mind from the resentful recollection 
of what had last night passed betwixt her and the 
Queen, in which the latter had with such bitter 
taunt reminded her of her early and long-repented 
transgression. 

‘‘ Why,” she said, “ should I resent so deeply, 
that another reproaches me with that which I have 
never ceased to make matter of blushing to myself 
and yet, why should this woman, who reaps — at 
least, has reaped — the fruits of my folly, and has 
jostled my son aside from the throne, why should 
she, in the face of all my domestics, and of her own, 
dare to upbraid me with my shame ? Is she not in 
my power ? Does she not fear me \ Ha I wily 
tempter, I will wrestle with thee strongly, and 
with better suggestions than my own evil heart can 
supply J ” 


THE ABBOT. 


190 

She again took up the sacred Volume, and was 
endeavouring to fix her attention on its contents, 
when she was disturbed by a tap at the door of the 
room It opened at her command, and the steward 
Dryfesdale entered, and stood before her with a 
gloomy and perturbed expression on his brow. 

“ What has chanced, Dryfesdale, that thou look- 
est thus?’' said his mistress — “Have there been 
evil tidings of my son, or of my grandchildren ? ” 

“ No, Lady,” replied Dryfesdale, “ but you were 
deeply insulted last night, and I fear me thou art 
as deeply avenged this morning — Where is the 
chaplain ? ” 

“What mean you by hints so dark, and a 
question so sudden ? The chaplain, as you well 
know, is absent at Perth upon an assembly of the 
brethren." 

“ I care not,” answered the steward ; “ he is but a 
priest of Baal.” 

“ Dryfesdale,” said the Lady, sternly, “ what 
meanest thou ? I have ever heard, that in the Low 
Countries thou didst herd with the Anabaptist 
preachers, those boars which tear up the .vintage — 
But the ministry which suits me and my house 
must content my retainers.” 

“ I would I had good ghostly counsel, though,” 
replied the steward, not attending to his mistress’s 
rebuke, and seeming to speak to himself. “ This 
woman of Moab ” 

“Speak of her with reverence,” said the Lady; 
“ she is a king’s daughter.” 

“ Be it so,” replied Dryfesdale ; “ she goes where 
there is little difference .betwixt her and a beggar’s 
child — Mary of Scotland is dying.” 

“Dying, and in my castle!” said the Lady, start 


THE ABBOT. 


191 


ing up in alarm; “of what disease, or by what 
accident ? ” 

“ Bear patience, Lady. The ministry was mine.” 

“ Thine, villain and traitor . — how didst thou 
dare ” 

“ I heard you insulted. Lady — I heard you de- 
mand vengeance — I promised you should have it, 
and I now bring tidings of it.” 

“Dryfesdale, I trust thou ravest?” said the Lady. 

“ I rave not,” replied the steward. “ That which 
was written of me a million of years ere I saw the 
light, must be executed by me. She hath that in 
her veins that, I fear me, will soon stop the springs 
of life.” 

“Cruel villain,” exclaimed the Lady, “thou hast 
not poisoned her ? 

“And if I had,” said Dryfesdale, “what does it 
so greatly merit ? Men bane vermin — why not rid 
them of their enemies so ? in Italy they will do it 
for a cruizuedor.” 

“ Cowardly ruffian, begone from my sight ! ” 

“ Think better of my zeal, Lady,” said the stew- 
ard, “ and judge not without looking around you. 
Lindesay, Euthven, and your kinsman Morton, pon- 
iarded Eizzio, and yet you now see no blood on 
their embroidery — the Lord Semple stabbed the 
Lord of Sanquhar — does his bonnet sit a jot more 
awry on his brow ? What noble lives in Scotland 
who has not had a share, for policy or revenge, in 
some such dealing ? — and who imputes it to them ? 
Be not cheated with names — a dagger or a draught 
work to the same end, and are little unlike — a glass 
phial imprisons the one, and a leathern sheath the 
other — one deals with the brain, the other sluices 
the blood — Yet, I say not I gave aught to this lady." 


192 


THE ABBOT. 


“ What dost thou mean by thus dallying with 
me ? ” said the Lady ; “ as thou wouldst save thy 
neck from the rope it merits, tell me the whole truth 
of this story — thou hast long been known a danger- 
ous man.” 

“ Ay, in my master’s service I can be cold and 
sharp as my sword. Be it known to you, that, when 
last on shore, I consulted with a woman of skill and 
power, called Nicneven, of whom the country has 
rung for some brief time past. Fools asked her for 
charms to make them beloved, misers for means to 
increase their store ; some demanded to know the 
future — an idle wish, since it cannot be altered ; 
others would have an explanation of the past — idler 
still, since it cannot be recalled. I heard their que- 
ries with scorn, and demanded the means of aveng- 
ing myself of a deadly enemy, for I grow old, and 
may trust no longer to Bilboa blade. She gave me 
a packet — Mix that, said she, with any liquid, and 
thy vengeance is complete.” 

“Villain ! and you mixed it with the food of this 
imprisoned lady, to the dishonour of thy master’s 
house ? ” 

“ To redeem the insulted honour of my master’s 
house, I mixed the contents of the packet with the 
jar of succory-water : They seldom fail to drain it, 
and the woman loves it over all.” 

“ It was a work of hell,” said the Lady Lochleven, 
“ both the asking and the granting. — Away, wretched 
man, let us see if aid be yet too late ! ” 

“ They will not admit us, madam, save we enter 
by force — I have been twice at the door, but can 
obtain no entrance.” 

“We will beat it level with the ground, if needful 
— And, hold— summon Eandal hither instantly. 


THE ABBOT. 


193 


Randal, here is a foul and evil chance befallen — 
send off a boat instantly to Kinross, the Chamber- 
lain Luke Lundin is said to have skill — Fetch off, 
too, that foul witch Nicneven ; she shall first coun- 
teract her own spell, and then be burnt to ashes in 
the island of Saint Serf. Away, away — Tell them 
to hoist sail and ply oar, as ever they would have 
good of the Douglas’s hand ! ” 

"Mother Nicneven will not be lightly found, 
or fetched hither on these conditions,” answered 
Dryfesdale. 

" Then grant her full assurance of safety — Look 
to it, for thine own life must answer for this lady’s 
recovery.” 

" I might have guessed that,” said Dryfesdale, 
sullenly ; " but it is my comfort I have avenged 
mine own cause, as well as yours. She hath scoffed 
and scripped at me, and encouraged her saucy minion 
of a page to ridicule my stiff gait and slow speech. 
I felt it borne in upon me that I was to be avenged 
on them.” 

" Go to the western turret,” said the Lady, " and 
remain there in ward until we see how this gear 
will terminate. I know thy resolved disposition — 
thou wilt not attempt escape.” 

" Not were the walls of the turret of egg-shells, 
and the lake sheeted with ice,” said Dryfesdale.’ "I 
am well-taught, and strong in belief, that man does 
nought of himself ; he is but the foam on the billow, 
which rises, bubbles, and bursts, not by its own 
effort, but by the mightier impulse of fate which 
urges him. Yet, Lady, if I may advise, amid this 
zeal for the life of the Jezebel of Scotland, forget 
not what is due to thine own honour, and keep the 
matter secret as you may.” 

VOL. II. — 13 


194 


THE ABBOT. 


So saying, the gloomy fatalist turned from her, 
and stalked off with sullen composure to the place 
of confinement allotted to him. 

His lady caught at his last hint, and only ex- 
pressed her fear that the prisoner had partaken 
of some unwholesome food, and was dangerously ill. 
The castle was soon alarmed and in confusion. Kan- 
dal was dispatched to the shore to fetch off Lundin, 
with such remedies as could counteract poison ; and 
with farther instructions to bring Mother Nicneven, 
if she could be found, with full power to pledge the 
Lady of Lochleven’s word for her safety. 

Meanwhile the Lady of Lochleven herself held 
parley at the door of the Queen’s apartment, and in 
vain urged the page to undo it. 

“Foolish boy !” she said, “ thine own life and thy 
Lady’s are at stake — Open, I say, or we will cause 
the door to be broken down.” 

“ I may not open the door without my royal mis- 
tress’s orders,” answered Eoland ; “ she has been 
very ill, and now she slumbers — if you wake her 
by using violence, let the consequence be on you 
and your followers.” 

“Was ever woman in a strait so fearful! ’’ex- 
claimed the Lady of Lochleven — “ At least, thou 
rash boy, beware that no one tastes the food, but 
especially the jar of succory- water.” 

She then hastened to the turret, where Dryfesdale 
had composedly resigned himself to imprisonment. 
She found him reading, and demanded of him, “ Was 
thy fell potion of speedy operation ? ” 

“ Slow,” answered the steward. “ The hag asked 
me which I chose — I told her I loved a slow and 
sure revenge. Eevenge, said I, is the highest-fla- 
voured draught which man tastes upon earth, and 


THE ABBOT. 


^95 

he should sip it by little and little — not drain it 
up greedily at once.” 

“Against whom, unhappy man, couldst thou 
nourish so fell a revenge ? ” 

“ I had many objects, but the chief was that in- 
solent page.” 

“ The boy ! — thou inhuman man,” exclaimed the 
lady ; “what could he do to deserve thy malice ? ” 
“He rose in your favour, and you graced him 
with your commissions — that was one thing. He 
rose in that of George Douglas also — that was 
another. He was the favourite of the Calvinistic 
Henderson, who hated me because my spirit dis- 
owns a separated priesthood. The Moabitish Queen 
held him dear — winds from each opposing point 
blew in his favour — the old servitor of your house 
was held lightly among ye — above all, from the 
first time I saw his face, I longed to destroy him.” 

“ What fiend have I nurtured in my house ! ” re- 
plied the Lady. “ May God forgive me the sin of 
having given thee food and raiment ! ” 

“ You might not choose. Lady,” answered the 
steward. “Long ere this castle was builded — ay, 
long ere the islet which sustains it reared its head 
above the blue water, I was destined to be your 
faithful slave, and you to be my ungrateful mistress. 
Eemember you not when I plunged amid the vic- 
torious French, in the time of this lady’s mother, 
and brought off your husband, when those who had 
hung at the same breasts with him dared not at- 
tempt the rescue ? — Eemember how I plunged into 
the lake when your grandson’s skiff was overtaken 
by the tempest, boarded, and steered her safe to the 
land. Lady — the servant of a Scottish baron is he 
who regards not his own life, or that of any other; 


196 


THE ABBOT. 


save his master. And, for the death of the woman, 
I had tried the potion on her sooner, had not Master 
George been her taster. Her death — would it not 
be the happiest news that Scotland ever heard ? Is 
she not of the bloody Guisian stock, whose sword 
was so often red with the blood of God’s saints ? Is 
she not the daughter of the wretched tyrant James, 
whom Heaven cast down from his kingdom, and his 
pride, even as the king of Babylon was smitten ? ” 

“ Peace, villain ! ” said the Lady — a thousand 
varied recollections thronging on her mind at the 
mention of her royal lover’s name; “Peace, and dis- 
turb not the ashes of the dead — of the royal, of the 
unhappy dead. Bead thy Bible ; and may God grant 
thee to avail thyself better of its contents than thou 
hast yet done ! ” She departed hastily, and as she 
reached the next apartment, the tears rose to her 
eyes so hastily, that she was compelled to stop and 
use her kerchief to dry them. “ I expected not this,” 
she said, “ no more than to have drawn water from 
the hard flint, or sap from a withered tree. I saw 
with a dry eye the apostacy and shame of George 
Douglas, the hope of my son’s house — the child of 
my love ; and yet I now weep for him who has so 
long lain in his grave — for him to whom I owe it, 
that his daughter can make a scoffing and a jest of 
my name ! But she is his daughter — my heart, 
hardened against her for so many causes, relents 
when a glance of her eye places her father unex- 
pectedly before me — and, as often, her likeness to 
that true daughter of the house of Guise, her de- 
tested mother, has again confirmed my resolution. 
But she must not — must not die in my house, and 
by so foul a practice. Thank God, the operation of 
the potion is slow, and may be counteracted. I will 


THE ABBOT. 


*97 


to her apartment once more. But 0 ! that hardened 
villain, v/hose fidelity we held in such esteem, 
and had such high proof of ! What miracle can 
unite so much wickedness, and so much truth, in 
one bosom!” 

The Lady of Lochleven was not aware how far 
minds of a certain gloomy and determined cast by 
nature, may be warped by a keen sense of petty in- 
juries and insults, combining with the love of gain, 
and sense of self-interest, and amalgamated with the 
crude, wild, and indigested fanatical opinions which 
this man had gathered among the crazy sectaries of 
Germany ; or how far the doctrines of fatalism, 
which he had embraced so decidedly, sear the hu- 
man conscience, by representing our actions as the 
result of inevitable necessity. 

During her visit to the prisoner, Boland had 
communicated to Catherine the tenor of the con- 
versation he had had with her at the door of the 
apartment. The quick intelligence of that lively 
maiden instantly comprehended the outline of what 
was believed to have happened, but her prejudices 
hurried her beyond the truth. 

" They meant to have poisoned us,” she exclaimed 
in horror, "and there stands the fatal liquor which 
should have done the deed I — Ay, as soon as Doug- 
las ceased to be our taster, our food was likely to 
be fatally seasoned. Thou, Boland, who shouldst 
have made the essay, wert readily doomed to die 
with us. O, dearest Lady Fleming, pardon, pardon, 
for the- injuries I said to you in my anger — your 
words were prompted by Heaven to save our lives, 
and especially that of the injured Queen. But 
what have we now to do ? that old crocodile of the 
lake will be presently back to shed her hypocritical 


THE ABBOT. 


198 

tears over our dying agonies. — Lady Fleming, what 
shall we do ? ' ’ 

" Our Lady help us in our need ! ” she replied ; 
‘‘ how should I tell ? — unless we were to make our 
plaint to the Kegent.” 

“Make our plaint to the devil,” said Catherine, 
impatiently, “ and accuse his dam at the foot of his 
burning throne ! — The Queen still sleeps — we 
must gain time. The poisoning hag must not know 
her scheme has miscarried ; the old envenomed spi- 
der has but too many ways of mending her broken 
web. — The jar of succory- water,” said she — “ Bo- 
land, if thou be’st a man, help me — empty the jar on 
the chimney or from the window — make such 
waste among the viands as if we had made our 
usual meal, and leave the fragments on cup and por- 
ringer, but taste nothing as thou lovest thy life. I 
will sit by the Queen, and tell her, at her waking, in 
what a fearful pass we stand. Her sharp wit and 
ready spirit will teach us what is best to be done. 
Meanwhile, till farther notice, observe, Boland, that 
the Queen is in a state of torpor — that Lady Flem- 
ing is indisposed — that character ” (speaking in a 
lower tone) “ will suit her best, and save her wits 
some labour in vain. I am not so much indisposed, 
thou understandest.” 

“ And I ? ” said the page 

“ You ? ” replied Catherine, “ you are quite well 
— who thinks it worth while to poison puppy-dogs 
or pages ? ” 

“ Does this levity become the time ? ” asked the 
page. 

“ It does, it does,” answered Catherine Seyton ; 
“ if the Queen approves, I see plainly how this dis- 
concerted attempt may do us good service.” 


THE ABBOT. 


199 


She went to work while she spoke, eagerly as- 
sisted by Eoland. The breakfast table soon dis- 
played the appearance as if the meal had been eaten 
as usual ; and the ladies retired as softly as possible 
into the Queen’s sleeping apartment. At a new 
summons of the Lady Lochleven, the page undid 
the door, and admitted her into the anteroom, asking 
her pardon for having withstood her, alleging in 
excuse, that the Queen had fallen into a heavy 
slumber since she had broken her fast. 

“She has eaten and drunken, then?” said the 
Lady of Lochleven. 

“Surely,” replied the page, “according to her 
Grace’s ordinary custom, unless upon the fasts of 
the church.” 

“ The jar,” she said, hastily examining it, “ it is 
empty — drank the Lady Mary the whole of this 
water ? ” 

“ A large part, madam ; and I heard the Lady 
Catherine Seyton jestingly upbraid the Lady Mary 
Fleming with having taken more than a just share of 
what remained, so that but little fell to her own lot.” 

“ And are they well in health ? ” said the Lady 
of Lochleven. 

“Lady Fleming,” said the page,. “ complains of 
lethargy, and looks duller than usual ; and the Lady 
Catherine of Seyton feels her head somewhat more 
giddy than is her wont.” 

He raised his voice a little as he said these words, 
to apprise the ladies of the part assigned to each of 
them, and not, perhaps, without the wish of con- 
veying to the ears of Catherine the page-like jest 
which lurked in the allotment. 

“ I will enter the Queen’s chamber,” said the Lady 
Lochleven ; “ my business is express.” 


200 


THE ABBOT. 


As she advanced to the door, the voice of Cathe- 
rine Seyton was heard from within — “No one can 
enter here — the Queen sleeps.” 

“I will not be controlled, young lady,” replied 
the Lady of Lochleven ; “ there is, I wot, no inner 
bar, and I will enter in your despite.” 

“ There is, indeed, no inner bar,” answered Cath- 
erine, firmly, “ but there are the staples where that 
bar should be ; and into those staples have I thrust 
mine arm, like an ancestress of your own, W'hen, 
better employed than the Douglasses of our days, 
she thus defended the bedchamber of her sovereign 
against murderers. Try your force, then, and see 
whether a Seyton cannot rival in courage a maiden 
of the house of Douglas.” 

“ I dare not attempt the pass at such risk,” said 
the Lady of Lochleven : “ Strange, that this Prin- 
cess, with all that justly attaches to her as blame- 
worthy, should preserve such empire over the minds 
of her attendants ! — Damsel, I give thee my honour 
that I come for the Queen’s safety and advantagec 
Awaken her, if thou lovest her, and pray her leave 
that I may enter — I will retire from the door the 
whilst.” 

“ Thou wilt not awaken the Queen ? ” said the 
Lady Fleming. 

“ What choice have we ? ” said the ready-witted 
maiden, “ unless you deem it better to wait till the 
Lady Lochleven herself plays lady of the bedcham- 
ber. Her fit of patience will not last long, and the 
Queen must be prepared to meet her.” 

“ But thou wilt bring back her Grace’s fit by thus 
disturbing her.” 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” replied Catherine ; “ but if so, 
it must pass for an effect of the poison. I hope 


THE ABBOT. 


201 


better things, and that the Queen will be able when 
she wakes to form her own judgment in this terrible 
crisis. Meanwhile, do thou, dear Lady Fleming, 
practise to look as dull and heavy as the alertness 
■ of thy spirit will permit.” 

Catherine kneeled by the side of the Queen’s bed, 
and, kissing her hand repeatedly, succeeded at last 
in awakening without alarming her. She seemed 
surprised to find that she was ready dressed, but 
sate up in her bed, and appeared so perfectly 
composed, that Catherine Seyton, without farther 
preamble, judged it safe to inform her of the pre- 
dicament in which they were placed. Mary turned 
pale, and crossed herself again and again, when she 
heard the imminent danger in which she had stood. 
But, like the Ulysses of Homer, 

“ Hardly waking yet, 

Sprung in her mind the momentary wit,” 

and she at once understood her situation, with the 
dangers and advantages that attended it. 

“We cannot do better,” she said, after her hasty 
conference with Catherine, pressing her at the same 
time to her bosom, and kissing her forehead ; “ we 
cannot do better than to follow the scheme so hap- 
pily devised by thy quick wit and bold affection. 
Undo the door to the Lady Lochleven — She shall 
meet her match in art, though not in perfidy. Flem- 
ing, draw close the curtain, and get thee behind 
it — thou art a better tire-woman than an actress ; 
do but breathe heavily, and, if thou wilt, groan 
slightly, and it will top thy part. Hark ! they come. 
How, Catherine of Medicis, may thy spirit inspire 
me, for a cold northern brain is too blunt for this 
scene ! ” 


202 


THE ABBOT. 


Ushered by Catherine Seyton, and stepping as 
light as she could, the Lady Lochleven was shown 
into the twilight apartment, and conducted to the 
side of the couch, where Mary, pallid and exhausted 
from a sleepless night, and the subsequent agita- 
tion of the morning, lay extended so listlessly as 
might well confirm the worst fears of her hostess. 

“ Now, God forgive us our sins ! ” said the I^dy 
of Lochleven, forgetting her pride, and throwing 
herself on her knees by the side of the bed ; “ it is 
too true — she is murdered ! ” 

“ Who is in the chamber ? ” said Mary, as if 
awaking from a heavy sleep. “ Seyton, Fleming, 
where are you ? I heard a strange voice. Who 
waits ? — Call Courcelles.” 

“ Alas ! her memory is at Holyrood, though her 
body is at Lochleven. — Forgive, madam,” continued 
the Lady, “ if I call your attention to me — I am 
Margaret Erskine, of the house of Mar, by marriage 
Lady Douglas of Lochleven.” 

“ 0, our gentle hostess,” answered the Queen, 
“ who hath such care of our lodgings and of our 
diet — We cumber you too much and too long, 
good Lady of Lochleven ; but we now trust your 
task of hospitality is wellnigh ended.” 

“Mer words go like a knife through my heart,” 
said the Lady of Lochleven — “With a breaking 
heart, I pray your Grace to tell me what is your 
ailment, that aid may be had, if there be yet 
time ? ” 

“ Nay, my ailment,” replied the Queen, ** is nothing 
worth telling, or worth a leech’s notice — my limbs 
feel heavy — my heart feels cold — a prisoner’s 
limbs and heart are rarely otherwise — fresh air, 
methinks, and freedom, would soon revive me,* 


THE ABBOT. ‘ 


203 


but as the Estates. have ordered it, death alone can 
break my prison-doors.” 

“ Were it possible, madam,” said the Lady, “ that 
your liberty could restore your perfect health, I 
would myself encounter the resentment of the Ee- 
gent — of my son. Sir William — of my whole 
friends, rather than you should meet your fate in 
this castle ! ” 

“Alas! madam,” said the Lady Fleming, who 
conceived the time propitious to show that her own 
address had been held too lightly of ; “ it is but 
trying what good freedom may work upon us ; for 
myself, I think a free walk on the greensward would 
do me much good at heart.” 

The Lady of Lochleven rose from the bedside, 
and darted a penetrating look at the elder valetudi- 
nary. “ Are you so evil disposed. Lady Fleming ? ” 

“ Evil disposed indeed, madam,” replied the 
court dame, “ and more especially since breakfast.” 

“ Help ! help 1 ” exclaimed Catherine, anxious to 
break off a conversation which boded her schemes 
no good ; “ help ! I say, help 1 the Queen is about 
to pass away. Aid her, Lady Lochleven, if you be 
a woman ! ” 

The Lady hastened to support the Queen’s head, 
who, turning her eyes towards her with an air of 
great languor, exclaimed, “ Thanks, my dearest 
Lady of Lochleven — notwithstanding some pas- 
sages of late, I have never misconstrued or mis- 
doubted your affection to our house. It was proved, 
as I have heard, before I was born.” 

The Lady Lochleven sprung from the floor, on 
which she had again knelt, and having paced the 
apartment in great disorder, flung open the lattice, 
as if to get air. 


204 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Now, Our Lady forgive me ! ” said Catherine 
to herself. ‘'How deep must the love of sarcasm 
be implanted in the breasts of us women, since the 
Queen, with all her sense, will risk ruin rather than 
rein in her wit ! ” She then adventured, stooping 
over the Queen's person, to press her arm with her 
hand, saying, at the same time, “For God’s sake, 
madam, restrain yourself!” 

“ Thou art too forward, maiden,” said the Queen ; 
but immediately added, in a low whisper, “Forgive 
me, Catherine ; but when I felt the hag’s murderous 
hands busy about my head and neck, I felt such dis- 
gust and hatred, that I must have said something, 
or died. But I will be schooled to better haviour 
- — only see that thou let her not touch me.” 

“ Now, God be praised ! ” said the Lady Loch- 
leven, withdrawing her head from the window, “ the 
boat comes as fast as sail and oar can send wood 
through water — It brings the leech and a female — 
certainly, from the appearance, the very person I 
was in quest of. Were she but well out of this 
castle, with our honour safe, I would that she were 
on the top of the wildest mountain in Norway ; or 
I would I had been there myself, ere I had under- 
taken this trust 1 ” 

While she thus expressed herself, standing apart 
at one window, Roland Graeme, from the other, 
watched the boat bursting through the waters of 
the lake, which glided from its side in ripple and in 
foam. He, too, became sensible, that at the stern 
was seated the medical Chamberlain, clad in his 
black velvet cloak ; and that his own relative, Mag- 
dalen Graeme, in her assumed character of Mother 
Nicneven, stood in the bow, her hands clasped to- 
gether, and pointed towards the castle, and her 


THE ABBOT. 


205 


attitude, even at that distance, expressing enthusias- 
tic eagerness to arrive at the landing-place. They 
arrived there accordingly ; and while the supposed 
witch was detained in a room beneath, the physi- 
cian was ushered to the Queen’s apartment, which 
he entered with all due professional solemnity. 
Catherine had, in the meanwhile, fallen back from 
the Queen’s bed, and taken an opportunity to whisper 
to Eoland, “Methinks, from the information of the 
threadbare velvet cloak and the solemn beard, there 
would be little trouble in haltering yonder ass. But 
thy grandmother, Eoland — thy grandmother’s zeal 
will ruin us, if she get not a hint to dissemble.” 

Eoland, without reply, glided towards the door of 
the apartment, crossed the parlour, and safely en- 
tered the antechamber ; but when he attempted to 
pass farther, the word “ Back ! Back ! ” echoed 
from one to the other, by two men armed with car- 
abines, convinced him that the Lady of Lochleven’s 
suspicions had not, even in the midst of her alarms, 
been so far lulled to sleep as to omit the precaution 
of stationing sentinels on her prisoners. He was 
compelled, therefore, to return to the parlour, or 
audience-chamber, in which he found the Lady of 
the castle in conference with her learned leech. 

“ A truce with your cant phrase and your solemn 
foppery, Lundin,” in such terms she accosted the 
man of art, “ and let me know instantly, if thou 
canst tell, whether this lady hath swallowed aught 
that is less than wholesome.” 

“ Hay, but, good lady — honoured patroness — to 
whom I am alike bondsman in my medical and 
official capacity, deal reasonably with me. If this, 
mine illustrious patient, will not answer a question, 
saving with sighs and moans — if that other honour 


2o6 


THE ABBOT. 


able lady will do nought but yawn in my face when 
I enquire after the diagnostics — and if that other 

young damsel, who I profess is a comely maiden” 

“Talk not to me of comeliness or of damsels,” 
said the Lady of Lochleven, “ I say, are they evil- 
disposed? — In one word, man, have they taken 
poison, ay or no ? ” 

“ Poisons, madam,” said the learned leech, ‘‘ are 
of various sorts. There is your animal poison, as 
the lepus marinuSy as mentioned by Dioscorides and 
Galen — there are mineral and semi- mineral poisons, 
as those compounded of sublimate regulus of anti- 
mony, vitriol, and the arsenical salts — there are 
your poisons from herbs and vegetables, as the 
aqua cymbalarise, opium, aconitum, cantharides, and 

the like — there are also ” 

“ Now, out upon thee for a learned fool ! and I 
myself am no better for expecting an oracle from 
such a log,” said the Lady. 

“ Nay, but if your ladyship will have patience — 
if I knew what food they have partaken of, or could 
see but the remnants of what they have last eaten 
— for as to the external and internal symptoms, I 
can discover nought like ; for, as Galen saith in his 

second book de Antidotis ” 

“Away, fool!” said the Lady; “send me that 
hag hither ; she shall avouch what it was that she 
hath given to the wretch Dryfesdale, or the pilnie- 
winks and thumbikins shall wrench it out of her 
^Uger joints 1 

“Art hath no enemy unless the ignorant,” said 
the mortified Doctor ; veiling, however, his remark 
under the Latin version, and stepping apart into a 
corner to watch the result. 

In a minute or two Magdalen Graeme entered 


THE ABBOT. 


207 


fche apartment, dressed as we have described her at 
the revel, but with her muffler thrown hack, and 
all affectation of disguise. She was attended by 
two guards, of whose presence she did not seem 
even to be conscious, and who followed her with an 
air of embarrassment and timidity, which was prob- 
ably owing to their belief in her supernatural power, 
coupled with the effect produced by her bold and 
undaunted demeanour. She confronted the Lady of 
Lochleven, who seemed to endure with high disdain 
the confidence of her air and manner. 

“ Wretched woman ! ” said the Lady, after essay- 
ing for a moment to bear her down, before she 
addressed her, by the stately severity of her look, 
“ what was that powder which thou didst give to a 
servant of this house, by name Jasper Dryfesdale, 
that he might work out with it some slow and secret 
vengeance ? — Confess its nature and properties, or, 
by the honour of Douglas, I give thee to fire and 
stake before the sun is lower ! ” 

‘*Alas!” said Magdalen Graeme in reply, “and 
when became a Douglas or a Douglas’s man so un- 
furnished of his means of revenge, that he should 
seek them at the hands of a poor and solitary 
woman ? The towers in which your captives pine 
away into unpitied graves, yet stand fast on their 
foundations — the crimes wrought in them have 
not yet burst their vaults asunder — your men have 
still their crossbows, pistolets, and daggers — why 
need you seek to herbs or charms for the execution 
of your revenges ? ” 

“ Hear me, foul hag,” said the Lady of Lochleven, 
— “ but what avails speaking to thee ? — Bring Dry- 
fesdale hither, and let them be confronted together.” 

“ You may spare your retainers the labour,” re* 


2o8 


THE ABBOT. 


plied Magdalen Graeme. “I came not here to be 
confronted with a base groom, nor to answer the 
interrogatories of James’s heretical leman — I cam^. 
to speak with the Queen of Scotland — Give place 
there!” 

And while the Lady of Lochleven stood con- 
founded at her boldness, and at the reproach she 
had cast upon herself, Magdalen Graeme strode past 
her into the bedchamber of the Queen, and, kneel- 
ing on the floor, made a salutation as if, in the Ori- 
ental fashion, she meant to touch the earth with 
her forehead. 

'‘Hail, Princess!” she said, “hail, daughter of 
many a king, but graced above them all in that thou 
art called to suffer for the true faith ! — hail to thee, 
the pure gold of whose crown has been tried in the 
seven-times heated furnace of affliction — hear the 
comfort which God and Our Lady send thee by 
the mouth of thy unworthy servant. — But first ” 
— and stooping her head she crossed herself re- 
peatedly, and, still upon her knees, appeared to be 
rapidly reciting some formula of devotion. 

“ Seize her, and drag her to the massy-more ! — 
To the deepest dungeon with the sorceress, whose 
master, the Devil, could alone have inspired her 
with boldness enough to insult the mother of Doug- 
las in his Qwn castle ! ” 

Thus spoke the incensed Lady of Lochleven, but 
the physician presumed to interpose. 

“ I pray of you, honoured madam, she be per- 
mitted to take her course without interruption. 
Peradventure we shall learn something concerning 
the nostrum she hath ventured, contrary to law 
and the rules of art, to adhibit to these ladies, 
through the medium of the steward Dryfesdale.” 


THE ABBOT, 


209 


“ For a fool,” replied the Lady of Lochleven, 
'' thou hast counselled wisely — I will bridle my 
resentment till their conference he over.” 

“ God forbid, honoured lady,” said Doctor Lun- 
din, “ that you should suppress it longer — nothing 
may more endanger the frame of your honoured 
body ; and truly, if there be witchcraft in this mat- 
ter, it is held by the vulgar, and even by solid au- 
thors on Demonology, that three scruples of the 
ashes of the witch, when she hath been well and 
carefully burnt at a stake, is a grand Catholicon 
in such matter, even as they prescribe crinis canis 
rahidi, a hair of the dog that bit the patient, in cases 
of hydrophobia. I warrant neither treatment, being 
out of the regular practice of the schools ; but, in 
the present case, there can be little harm in trying 
the conclusion upon this old necromancer and quack- 
salver — fiat exjperirrientum (as we say) in corjpore 
vili” 

“ Peace, fool ! ” said the Lady, “ she is about to 
speak.” 

At that moment Magdalen Graeme arose from her 
knees, and turned her countenance on the Queen, 
at the same time advancing her foot, extending her 
arm, and assuming the mien and attitude of a Sibyl • 
in frenzy. As her grey hair floated back from be- 
neath her coif, and her eye gleamed fire from under 
its shaggy eyebrow, the effect of her expressive, 
though emaciated features, was heightened by an 
enthusiasm approaching to insanity, and her appear- 
ance struck with awe all who were present. Her 
eyes for a time glanced wildly around, as if seek- 
ing for something to aid her in collecting her powers 
of expression, and her lips had a nervous and qui- 
vering motion, as those of one who would fain speak 

VOL. II. — 14 


210 


THE ABBOT. 


yet rejects as inadequate the words which present 
themselves. Mary herself caught the infection as 
if by a sort of magnetic influence, and raising her- 
self from her bed, without being able to withdraw 
her eyes from those of Magdalen, w^aited as if for 
the oracle of a Pythoness. She waited not long; 
for no sooner had the enthusiast collected herself, 
than her gaze became intensely steady, her features 
assumed a determined energy, and when she began 
to speak, the words flowed from her with a profuse 
fluency, which might have passed for inspiration, and 
which, perhaps, she herself mistook for such. 

“Arise,” she said, “Queen of France and of 
England! Arise, lioness of Scotland, and be not 
dismayed, though the nets of the hunters have en- 
circled thee 1 stoop not to feign with the false ones, 
whom thou shalt soon meet in the field. The issue 
of battle is with the God of armies, but by battle 
thy cause shall be tried. Lay aside, then, the arts 
of lower mortals, and assume those which become 
a Queen 1 True defender of the only true faith, the 
armoury of heaven is open to thee 1 Faithful daugh- 
ter of the Church; take the keys of St. Peter, to bind 
and to loose ! — Koyal Princess of the land, take the 
.sword of St. Paul, to smite and to shear! There is 
darkness in thy destiny ; — but not in these towers, 
not under the rule of their haughty mistress, shall 
that destiny be closed — In other lands, the lioness 
may crouch to the power of the tigress, but no|i in 
her own — not in Scotland shall the Queen of Scot- 
land long remain captive — nor is the fate of the 
royal Stewart in the hands of the traitor Douglas. 
Let the Lady of Lochleven double her bolts and 
• deepen her dungeons, they shall not retain thee — 
each element shall give thee its assistance ere thou 


THE ABBOT. 


21 1 

shalt continue captive — the land shall lend its earth- 
quakes, the water its waves, the air its tempest, 
the fire its devouring fiames, to desolate this house, 
rather than it shall continue the place of thy cap- 
tivity. — Hear this and tremble, all ye who fight 
against the light, for she says it, to whom it hath 
been assured ! ” 

She was silent, and the astonished physician said, 
“If there was ever an Energumene, or possessed 
Demoniac, in our days, there is a devil speaking 
with that woman’s tongue ! ” 

“ Practice,” said the Lady of Lochleven, recov- 
ing her surprise ; “ here is all practice and impos- 
ture — To the dungeon with her ! ” 

“Lady of Lochleven,” said Mary, arising from 
her bed, and coming forward with her wonted dig- 
nity, “ ere you make arrest on any one in our pre- 
sence, hear me but one word. I have done you 
some wrong — I believed you privy to the murder- 
ous purpose of your vassal, and I deceived you in 
suffering you to believe it had taken effect. I did 
you wrong. Lady of Lochleven, for I perceive your 
purpose to aid me was sincere. We tasted not 
of the liquid, nor are we now sick, save that we 
languish for our freedom.” 

“ It is avowed like Mary of Scotland,” said Mag- 
dalen Graeme; “and know, besides, that had the 
Queen drained the draught to the dregs, it was 
harmless as the water from a sainted spring. Trow 
ye, proud woman,” she added, addressing herself to 
the Lady of Lochleven, “ that I — I — would have 
been the wretch to put poison in the hands of a 
servant or vassal of the house of Lochleven, know- 
ing whom that house contained ? as soon would I 
have furnished drug to slay my own daughter 1 ” 


212 


THE ABBOT. 


" Am I thus bearded in mine own castle ?, ” said 
the Lady ; “ to the dungeon with her ! — she shall 
abye what is due to the vender of poisons and 
practiser of witchcrafts.” 

“ Yet hear me for an instant, Lady of Lochle- 
ven,” said Mary ; “ and do you,” to Magdalen, “ be 
silent at my command. — Your steward, lady, has 
by confession attempted my life, and those of my 
household, and this woman hath done her best to 
save them, by furnishing him with what was harm- 
less, in place of the fatal drugs which he expected. 
Me thinks I propose to you but a fair exchange, 
when I say I forgive your vassal with all my heart, 
and leave vengeance to God, and to his conscience, 
so that you also forgive the boldness of this woman 
in your presence ; for we trust you do not hold it as 
a crime, that she substituted an innocent beverage 
for the mortal poison which was to have drenched 
our .cup.” 

“ Heaven forefend, madam,” said the Lady, “ that 
I should account that a crime which saved the house 
of Douglas from a foul breach of honour and hospi- 
tality I We have written to our son touching our 
vassal’s delict, and he must abide his doom, which 
will most likely be death. Touching this woman, 
her trade is damnable by Scripture, and is mortally 
punished by the wise laws of our ancestry — she 
also must abide her doom.” 

“ And have I then,” said the Queen, “ no claim on 
the house of Lochleven for the wrong I have so nearly 
suffered within their walls ? I ask but in requital, 
the life of a frail and aged woman, whose brain, as 
yourself may judge, seems somewhat affected by years 
and suffering.” 

“ If the Lady Mary,” replied the inflexible Lady of 


THE ABBOT. 


213 

Lochleven, “hath b§eii menaced with wrong in the 
house of Douglas, it may be regarded as some com- 
pensation, that her complots have cost that house 
the exile of a valued son.” 

“ Plead no more for me, my gracious Sovereign,” 
said Magdalen Graeme, “ nor abase yourself to ask 
so much as a grey hair of my head at her hands. I 
knew the risk at which I served my Church and my 
Queen, and was ever prompt to pay my poor life as 
the ransom. It is a comfort to think, that in slay- 
ing me, or in restraining my freedom, or even in in- 
juring that single grey hair, the house, whose honour 
she boasts so highly, will have filled up the measure 
of their shame by the breach of their solemn written 
assurance of safety.” — And taking from her bosom 
a paper, she handed it to the Queen. 

“ It is a solemn assurance of safety in life and 
limb,” said Queen Mary, “ with space to come and go, 
under the hand and seal of the Chamberlain of Kin- 
ross, granted to Magdalen Graeme, commonly called 
Mother Nicneven, in consideration of her consenting 
to put herself, for the space of twenty-four hours, 
if required, within the iron gate of the Castle of 
Lochleven.” 

“ Knave ! ” said the Lady, turning to the Chamber- 
lain, “ how dared you grant her such a protection ? ” 

“ It was by your Ladyship’s orders, transmitted by 
Handal, as he can bear witness,” replied Doctor 
Lundin ; “ nay, I am only like the pharmacopolist, 
who compounds the drugs after the order of the 
mediciner.” 

“ I remember — I remember,” answered the Lady; 

“ but I meant the assurance only to be used in case, 
by residing in another jurisdiction, she could not 
have been apprehended under our warrant.” 


214 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Nevertheless,” said the Queen, “ the Lady of 
Lochleven is bound by the action of her deputy in 
granting the assurance.” 

“ Madam,” replied the Lady, “ the house of Doug- 
las have never broken their safe-conduct, and never 
will — too deeply did they suffer by such a breach of 
trust, exercised on themselves, when your Grace’s 
ancestor, the second James, in defiance of the rights 
of hospitality, and of his own written assurance of 
safety, poniarded the brave Earl of Douglas with his 
own hand, and within two yards of the social board, 
at which he had just before sat the King of Scot- 
land’s honoured guest.” 

“ Methinks,” said the Queen, carelessly, “ in con- 
sideration of so very recent and enormous a tragedy, 
which I think only chanced some six-score years 
agone, the Douglasses should have shown themselves 
less tenacious of the company of their sovereigns, 
than you, Lady of Lochleven, seem to be of mine.” 

“ Let Eandal,” said the Lady, “ take the hag back 
to Kinross, and set her at full liberty, discharging 
her from our bounds in future, on peril of her head. 
— And let your wisdom,” to the Chamberlain, “ keep 
her company. And fear not for your character, 
though I send you in such company ; .for, granting 
her to be a witch, it would be a waste of fagots to 
burn you for a wizard.” 

The crestfallen Chamberlain was preparing to de- 
part; but Magdalen Grssme, collecting herself, was 
about to reply, when the Queen interposed, saying, 
“ Good mother, we heartily thank you for your un- 
feigned zeal towards our person, and pray you, as our 
liege-woman, that you abstain from whatever may 
lead you into personal danger; and, further, it is 
our will that you depart without a word of farthei 


THE ABBOT. 


215 


parley with any one in this castle. For thy present 
guerdon, take this small reliquary — it was given to 
us by our uncle the Cardinal, and hath had the ben- 
ediction of the Holy Father himself ; — and now de- 
part in peace and in silence. — For you, learned sir,” 
continued the Queen, advancing to the Doctor, who 
made his reverence in a manner doubly embarrassed, 
by the awe of the Queen’s presence, which made him 
fear to do too little, and by the apprehension of his 
lady’s displeasure, in case he should chance to do 
too much, — “ for you, learned sir, as it was not your 
fault, though surely our own good fortune, that we 
did not need your skill at this time, it would not be- 
come us, however circumstanced, to suffer our leech 
to leave us without such guerdon as we can offer.” 

With these words, and with the grace which never 
forsook her, though, in the present case, there might 
lurk under it a little gentle ridicule, she offered a 
small embroidered purse to the Chamberlain, who, 
with extended hand and arched back, his learned face 
stooping until a physiognomist might have practised 
the metoposcopical science upon it, as seen from be- 
hind betwixt his gambadoes, was about to accept of 
the professional recompense offered by so fair as well 
as illustrious an hand. But the Lady interposed, 
and, regarding the Chamberlain, said aloud, “No 
servant of our house, without instantly relinquishing 
that character, and incurring withal our highest dis- 
pleasure, shall dare receive any gratuity at the hand 
of the Lady Mary.” 

Sadly and slowly the Chamberlain raised his de- 
pressed stature into the perpendicular attitude, and 
left the apartment dejectedly, followed by Magdalen 
Graeme, after, with mute but expressive gesture, she 
had kissed the reliquary with which the Queen had 


2i6 


THE ABBOT. 


presented her, and raising her clasped hands and up^ 
lifted eyes towards Heaven, had seemed to entreat a 
benediction upon the royal dame. As she left the 
castle, and went towards the quay where the boat 
lay, Eoland Graeme, anxious to communicate with 
her if possible, threw himself in her way, and might 
have succeeded in exchanging a few words with her, 
as she was guarded only by the dejected Chamber- 
lain and his halberdiers, but she seemed to have taken, 
in its most strict and literal acceptation, the com- 
mand to be silent which she had received from the 
Queen ; for, to the repeated signs of her grandson, 
she only replied by laying her finger on her lip. Dr. 
Lundin was not so reserved. Eegret for the hand- 
some gratuity, and for the compulsory task of self- 
denial imposed on him, had grieved the spirit of that 
worthy officer and learned mediciner — “ Even thus, 
my friend,” said he, squeezing the page’s hand as he 
bade him farewell, “ is merit rewarded. I came to 
cure this unhappy lady — and I profess she well de- 
serves the trouble, for, say what they will of her, 
she hath a most winning manner, a sweet voice, a 
gracious smile, and a most majestic wave of her hand. 
If she was not poisoned, say, my dear Master Eoland, 
was that fault of mine, I being ready to cure her if 
she had ? — and now I am denied the permission to 
accept my well-earned honorarium — 0 Galen ! 0 
Hippocrates ! is the graduate’s cap and doctor’s scar- 
let brought to this pass ! Frustva fatigamus remediis 
cegros ! ” 

He wiped his eyes, stepped on the gunwale, and 
the boat pushed off from the shore, and went merrily 
across the lake, which was dimpled by the summer 
wind.i 

^ Note II. — Supposed Conspiracy against the Life of Mary. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Death distant ? — No, alas ! he’s ever with us, 

And shakes the dart at us in all our actings : 

He lurks within our cup, while we’re in health ; 

Sits by our sick-bed, mocks our medicines ; 

We cannot walk, or sit, or ride, or travel, 

But Death is by to seize us when- he lists. 

The Spanish Father, 

From the agitating scene in the Queen’s presence- 
chamber, the Lady of Lochleven retreated to her 
own apartment, and ordered the steward to be 
called before her. 

" Have they not disarmed thee, Dryfesdale ? ” 
she said, on seeing him enter, accoutred, as usual, 
with sword And dagger. 

“ No ! ” replied the old man ; " how should they ? 
— Your ladyship, when you commanded me to 
ward, said nought of laying down my arms ; and, 
I think, none of your menials, without your order, 
or your son’s, dare approach Jasper Dryfesdale for 
such a purpose. — Shall I now give up my sword 
to you ? — it is worth little now, for it has fought 
for your house till it is worn down to old iron, 
like the pantler’s old chipping knife. ” 

" You have attempted a deadly crime — poison 
under trust. ” 

“ Under trust ? — hem ! — I know not what your 
ladyship thinks of it, but the world without thinks 
the trust was given you even for that very end; 
and you would have been well off had it been so 


2I8 


THE ABBOT. 


ended as I proposed, and you neither the worse nor 
the wiser. ” 

“ Wretch ! ” exclaimed the Lady, " and fool as 
well as villain, who could not even execute the 
crime he had planned ! ” 

" I bid as fair for it as man could, ” replied 
Dryfesdale ; “ I went to a woman — a witch and a 
papist — If I found not poison, it was because it 
was otherwise predestined. I tried fair for it ; but 
the half-done job may be clouted, if you will. ” 

“ Villain ! I am even now about to send off an 
express messenger to my son, to take order how 
thou shouldst be disposed of. Prepare thyself for 
death, if thou canst. ” 

" He that looks on death. Lady, ” answered Dry- 
fesdale, “ as that which he may not shun, and 
which has its own fixed and certain hour, is ever 
prepared for it. He that is hanged in May will 
eat no fiaunes ^ in midsummer — so there is the 
moan made for the old serving-man. But whom, 
pray I, send you on so fair an errand ? ” 

“ There will be no lack of messengers, ” an- 
swered his mistress. 

“ By my hand, but there will,” replied the old 
man ; “ your castle is but poorly manned, consider- 
ing the watches that you must keep, having this 
charge — There is the warder, and two others, 
whom you discarded for tampering with Master 
George; then for the warder’s tower, the bailie, 
the donjon — five men mount each guard, and the 
rest must sleep for the most part in their clothes. 
To send away another man, were to harass the sen- 
tinels to death — unthrifty misuse for a household. 
To take in new soldiers were dangerous, the charge 
^ Pancakes. 


THE ABBOT. 


219 


requiring tried men. I see but one thing for it — 
I will do your errand to Sir William Douglas 
myself. ” 

“ That were indeed a resource ! — And on what 
day within twenty years would it be done ? ” said 
the Lady. 

“ Even with the speed of man and horse, ” said 
Dryfesdale ; “ for though I care not much about 
the latter days of an old serving-man’s life, yet I 
would like to know as soon as may be, whether 
my neck is mine own or the hangman’s. ” 

“ Holdest thou thy own life so lightly ? ” said 
the Lady. 

“ Else I had recked more of that of others, ” said 
the predestinarian. — “ What is death ? — it is but 
ceasing to live — • And what is living ? — a weary 
return of light and darkness, sleeping and waking, 
being hungered and eating. Your dead man needs 
neither candle nor can, neither fire nor feather-bed ; 
and the joiner’s chest serves him for an eternal 
frieze-jerkin. ” 

“ Wretched man ! believest thou not that after 
death comes the judgment ? ” 

" Lady, ” answered Dryfesdale, " as my mistress, 
I may not dispute your words ; but, as spiritually 
speaking, you are still but a burner of bricks in 
Egypt, ignorant of the freedom of the saints ; for, 
as was well shown to me by that gifted man, 
Nicolaus Schoefferbach, who was martyred by the 
bloody Bishop of Munster, he cannot sin who doth 
but execute that which is predestined, since ” 

“ Silence ! ” said the Lady, interrupting him, — 
''Answer me not with thy bold and presumptuous 
blasphemy, but hear me. Thou hast been long the 
servant of our house ” 


220 


THE ABBOT. 


" The born servant of the Douglas — they have 
had the best of me — I served them since I left 
Lockerbie : I was then ten years old, and you may 
soon add the threescore to it. ” 

“ Thy foul attempt has miscarried, so thou art 
guilty only in intention. It were a deserved deed 
to hang thee on the warder’s tower; and yet, in 
thy present mind, it were but giving a soul to 
Satan. I take thine offer, then — Go hence — here 
is my packet — I will add to it but a line, to desire 
him to send me a faithful servant or two to 
complete the garrison. Let my son deal with you 
as he will. If thou art wise, thou wilt make for 
Lockerbie so soon as thy foot touches dry land, and 
let the packet find another bearer; at all rates, 
look it miscarries not. ” 

“ Nay, madam, ” replied he — "I was born, as I 
said, the Douglas’s servant, and I will be no 
corbie-messenger in mine old age — your message 
to your son shall be done as truly by me as if it 
concerned another man’s neck. I take my leave 
of your honour. ” 

The Lady issued her commands, and the old man 
was ferried over to the shore, to proceed on his 
extraordinary pilgrimage. It is necessary the 
reader should accompany him on his journey, 
which Providence had determined should not be of 
long duration. 

On arriving at the village, the steward, although 
his disgrace had transpired, was readily accommo- 
dated with a horse, by the Chamberlain’s author- 
ity; and the roads being by no means esteemed 
safe, he associated himself with Auchtermuchty, 
the common carrier, in order to travel in his com- 
pany to Edinburgh. 


THE ABBOT. 


221 


The worthy waggoner, according to the estab- 
lished custom of all carriers, stage-coachmen, and 
other persons in such public authority, from the 
earliest days to the present, never wanted good 
reasons for stopping upon the road, as often as he 
would ; and the place which had most captivation 
for him as a resting-place was a change-house, as 
it was termed, not very distant from a romantic 
dell, well known by the name of Keirie Craigs. 
Attractions of a kipd very different from those 
which arrested the progress of John Auchtermuchty 
and his wains, still continue to hover round this 
romantic spot, and none has visited its vicinity 
without a desire to remain long and to return 
soon. 

Arrived near his favourite howff, not all the 
authority of Dryfesdale (much diminished indeed 
by the rumours of his disgrace) could prevail on 
the carrier, obstinate as the brutes which he drove, 
to pass on without his accustomed halt, for which 
the distance he had travelled furnished little or no 
pretence. Old Keltie, the landlord, who has be- 
stowed his name on a bridge in the neighbourhood 
of his quondam dwelling, received the carrier with 
his usual festive cordiality, and adjourned with him 
into the house, under pretence of important busi- 
ness, which, I believe, consisted in their emptying 
together a mutchkin stoup of usquebaugh. While 
the worthy host and his guest were thus employed, 
the discarded steward, with a double portion of 
moroseness in his gesture and look, walked discon- 
tentedly into the kitchen of the place, which was 
occupied but by one guest. The stranger was a 
slight figure, scarce above the age of boyhood, and 
in the dress of a page, but bearing an air of haughty 


222 


THE ABBOT. 


aristocratic boldness and even insolence in his look 
and manner, that might have made Dryfesdale con- 
clude he had pretensions to superior rank, had not 
his experience taught him how frequently these 
airs of superiority were assumed by the domestics 
and military retainers of the Scottish nobility. — 
“ The pilgrim's morning to you, old sir, ” said the 
youth ; “ you come, as I think, from Lochleven 
Castle — What news of our bonny Queen ? — a fairer 
dove was never pent up in so wretched a dovecot. ” 

“ They that speak of Lochleven, and of those 
whom its walls contain, ” answered Dryfesdale, 
“ speak of what concerns the Douglas ; and they 
who speak of what concerns the Douglas, do it at 
their peril. ” 

“ Do you speak from fear of them, old man, or 
would you make a quarrel for them ? — I should 
have deemed your age might have cooled your 
blood. ” 

“ Never, while there are empty-pated coxcombs 
at each corner to keep it warm. ” 

“ The sight of thy grey hairs keeps mine cold, ” 
said the boy, who had risen up and. now sat down 
again. 

“ It is well for thee, or I had cooled it with this 
holly-rod, ” replied the steward. " I think thou 
be’st one of those swashbucklers, who brawl in 
ale-houses and taverns ; and who, if words were 
pikes, and oaths were Andrew Ferraras, would soon 
place the religion of Babylon in the land once 
more, and the woman of Moab upon the throne. ” 

" Now, by Saint Bennet of Seyton, ” said the 
youth, " I will strike thee on the face, thou foul- 
mouthed old railing heretic! ” 

“ Saint Bennet of Seyton 1 ” echoed the steward ; 


THE ABBOT. 


22J 


“ a proper warrant is Saint Bennet’s, and for a 
proper nest of wolf-birds like the Seytons!— I 
will arrest thee as a traitor to King James and the 

good Eegent. Ho ! John Auchtermuchty, raise aid 

against the King’s traitor!” 

So saying, he laid his hand on the youth’s col- 
lar, and drew his sword. John Auchtermuchty 
looked in, but, seeing the naked weapon, ran fas- 
ter out than he entered. Keltie' the landlord, 
stood by and helped neither party, only exclaim- 
ing, “ Gentlemen ! gentlemen ! for the love of 
Heaven I ” and so forth. A struggle ensued, in 
which the young man, chafed at Dryfesdale’s 
boldness, and unable, with the ease he expected, 
to extricate himself from the old man’s deter- 
mined grasp, drew his dagger, and, with the speed 
of light, dealt him three wounds in the breast and 
body, the least of which was mortal. The old man 
sunk on the ground with a deep groan, and the 
host set up a piteous exclamation of surprise. 

“ Peace, ye bawling hound ! ” said the wounded 
steward ; " are dagger-stabs and dying men such 
rarities in Scotland, that you should cry as if the 
house were falling ? — Youth, I do not forgive thee, 
for there is nought betwixt us to forgive. Thou 
hast done what I have done to more than one — 
And I suffer what I have seen them suffer — it was 
all ordainecl to be thus and not otherwise. But if 
thou wouldst do me right, thou wilt send this packet 
safely to the hands of Sir William of Douglas ; and 
see that my memory suffer not, as if I would have 
loitered on mine errand for fear of my life. ” 

The youth, whose passion had subsided the in- 
stant he had done the deed, listened with sympathy 
and attention, when another person, muffled in his 


224 


THE ABBOT. 


cloak, entered the apartment, and exclaimed — 
" Good God ! Dryfesdale, and expiring ! ” 

" Ay, and Dryfesdale would that he had been 
dead, ” answered the wounded man, “ rather than 
that his ears had heard the words of the only 
Douglas that ever was false — but yet it is better 
as it is. Good my murderer, and the rest of you, 
stand back a little, and let me speak with this 
unhappy apostate. — Kneel down by me. Master 
George — You have heard that I failed in my at- 
tempt to take away that Moabitish stumbling- 
block and her retinue — I gave them that which I 
thought would have removed the temptation out of 
thy path — and this, though I had other reasons to 
show to thy mother and others, I did chiefly pur- 
pose for love of thee. ” 

“ For the love of me, base poisoner ! ” answered 
Douglas, “ wouldst thou have committed so hor- 
rible, so unprovoked a murder, and mentioned 
my name with it ? ” 

“ And wherefore not, George of Douglas ? ” an- 
swered Dryfesdale. “ Breath is now scarce with 
me, but I would spend my last gasp on this argu- 
ment. Hast thou not, despite the honour thou 
owest to thy parents, the faith that is due to thy 
religion, the truth that is due to thy King, been 
so carried away by the charms of this beautiful 
sorceress, that thou wouldst have helped her to 
escape from her prison-house, and lent her thine 
arm again to ascend the throne, which she had 
made a place of abomination ? — Kay, stir not from 
me — my hand, though fast stiffening, has yet force 
enough to hold thee — What dost thou aim at — to 
wed this witch of Scotland ? — I warrant thee, thou 
mayst succeed — her heart and hand have been oft 


THE ABBOT. 


225 


won at a cheaper rate, than thou, fool that thou art, 
would think thyself happy to pay. But, should a 
servant of thy father’s house have seen thee em- 
brace the fate of the idiot Darnley, or of the vil- 
lain Both well — the fate of the murdered fool, or 
of the living pirate — while an ounce of ratsbane 
would have saved thee ? ” 

“ Think on God, Dryfesdale, ” said George Doug- 
las, " and leave the utterance of those horrors — 
Bepent if thou canst — if not, at least be silent. — 
Seyton, aid me to support this dying wretch, that 
he may compose himself to better thoughts, if it 
be possible. ” 

“ Seyton 1 ” answered the dying man ; “ Seyton ! 
Is it by a Seyton ’s hand that I fall at last? — 
There is something of retribution in that — since 
the house had nigh lost a sister by my deed.” 
Fixing his fading eyes on the youth, he added, 
“ He hath her very features and presence ! — Stoop 
down, youth, and let me see thee closer — I would 
know thee when we meet in yonder world, for 
homicides will herd together there, and I have 
been one. ” He pulled Scy ton’s face, in spite of 
some resistance, closer to his own, looked at him 
fixedly, and added, “Thou hast begun young — 
thy career will be the briefer — ay, thou wilt be 
met with, and that anon — a young plant never 
throve that was watered with an old man’s blood. 

Yet why blame I thee ? Strange turns of fate, ” 

he muttered, ceasing to address Seyton, “ I designed 
what I could not do, and he has done what he did 
not perchance design. — Wondrous, that our will 
should ever oppose itself to the strong and uncon- 
trollable tide of destiny — that we should strive 
with the stream when we might drift with the 

VOL. II. — 15 


226 


THE ABBOT. 


current! My brain will serve me to question it 
no farther — I would Schoefferbach were here — 
yet why ? — I am on a course which the vessel can 
hold without a pilot. — Farewell, George of Doug- 
las — I die true to thy father’s house.” He fell 
into convulsions at these words, and shortly after 
expired. 

Seyton and Douglas stood looking on the dying 
man, and when the scene was closed, the former 
was the first to speak. " As I live, Douglas, I 
meant not this, and am sorry ; but lie laid hands 
on me, and compelled me to defend my freedom, 
as I best might, with my dagger. If he were ten 
times thy friend and follower, I can but say that I 
am sorry. ” 

“ I blame thee not, Seyton, ” said Douglas, 
“ though I lament the chance. There is ‘an 
overruling destiny above us, though not in the 
sense in which it was viewed by that wretched 
man, who, beguiled by some foreign mystagogue, 
used the awful word as the ready apology for 
whatever he chose to do — we must examine the 
packet. ” 

They withdrew into an inner room, and re- 
mained deep in consultation, until they were dis- 
turbed by the entrance of Keltie, who, with an 
embarrassed countenance, asked Master George 
Douglas’s pleasure respecting the disposal of the 
body. “ Your honour knows, ” he added, “ that I 
make my bread by living men, not by dead corpses ; 
and old Mr. Dryfesdale, who was but a sorry cus- 
tomer while he was alive, occupies my public room 
now that he is deceased, and can neither call for 
ale nor brandy. ” 

“ Tie a stone round his neck, ” said Seyton, “ and 


THE ABBOT. 


227 

when the sun is down, have him to the Loch of 
Ore, heave him in, and let him alone for finding 
out the bottom. ” 

“ Under your favour, sir, ” said George Douglas, 
“ it shall not be so. — Keltic, thou art a true fel- 
low to me, and thy having been so shall advantage 
thee. Send or take the body to the chapel at Scot- 
land's Yv^all, or to the church of Ballingry, and tell 
what tale thou wilt of his having fallen in a brawl 
with some unruly guests of thine. Auchtermuchty 
knows nought else, nor are the times so peaceful as 
to admit close looking into such accounts. ” 

“ Nay, let him tell the truth, ” said Seyton, " so 
far as it harms not our scheme. — Say that Henry 
Seyton met with him, my good fellow; — I care 
not a brass boddle for the feud. ” 

“ A feud with the Douglas was ever to be feared, 
however,” said George, displeasure mingling with 
his natural deep gravity of manner. 

“ Not when the best of the name is on my side, ” 
replied Seyton. 

“ Alas ! Henry, if thou meanest me, I am but 
half a Douglas in this emprize — half head, half 
heart, and half hand. — But I will think on one 
who can never be forgotten, and be all, or more, 
than any of my ancestors was ever. — Keltic, say 
it was Henry Seyton did the deed; but beware, 
not a word of me ! — Let Auchtermuchty carry this 
packet ” (which he had resealed with his own 
signet) “ to my father at Edinburgh ; and here is 
to pay for the funeral expenses, and thy loss of 
custom. ” 

“ And the washing of the floor, ” said the land- 
lord, " which will be an extraordinary job ; for 
blood, they say, will scarcely ever cleanse out ” 


228 


THE ABBOT. 


" But as for your plan, ” said George of Douglas, 
addressing Seyton, as if in continuation of what 
they had been before treating of, “ it has a good 
face; but, under your favour, you are yourself too 
hot and too young, besides other reasons which 
are much against your playing the part you 
propose. ” 

"We will consult the Father Abbot upon it,” 
said the youth. “ Do you ride to Kinross to- 
night ? ” 

" Ay — so I purpose, ” answered Douglas ; “ the 
night will be dark, and suits a muffled man.^ — 
Keltie, I forgot, there should be a stone laid on 
that man’s grave, recording his name, and his only 
merit, which was being a faithful servant to the 
Douglas. ” 

" What religion was the man of?” said Seyton; 
" he used words which made me fear I have sent 
Satan a subject before his time. ” 

" I can tell you little of that, ” said George 
Douglas ; " he was noted for disliking both Home 
and Geneva, and spoke of lights he had learned 
among the fierce sectaries of Lower Germany — 
an evil doctrine it was, if we judge by the fruits. 
God keep us from presumptuously judging of 
Heaven’s secrets ! ” 

“ Amen ! ” said the young Seyton, “ and from 
meeting any encounter this evening. ” 

" It is not thy wont to pray so, ” said George 
Douglas. 

“ No ! I leave that to you, ” replied the youth, 
" when you are seized with scruples of engaging 
with your father’s vassals. But I would fain have 
this old man’s blood off these hands of mine ere I 
^ Note HI. — - MuflSed Man. 


THE ABBOT. 


229 


shed more — I will confess to the Abbot to-night, 
and I trust to have light penance for ridding the 
earth of such a miscreant. All I sorrow for is, 
that he was not a score of years younger — He 
drew steel first, however, that is one comfort. ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Ay, Pedro, — Come you here with mask and lantern, 

Ladder of ropes and other moonshine tools — 

Why, youngster, thou mayst cheat the old duenna, 

Platter the waiting-woman, bribe the valet ; 

But know, that I her father play the gryphon. 

Tameless and sleepless, proof to fraud or bribe. 

And guard the hidden treasure of her beauty. 

* The Spanish Father. 

The tenor of our tale carries us back to the Castle 
of Lochleven, where we take up the order of events 
on the same remarkable day on which Dryfesdale 
had been dismissed from the castle. It was past 
noon, the usual hour of dinner, yet no preparations 
seemed made for the Queen’s entertainment. Mary 
herself had retired into her own apartment, where 
she was closely engaged in writing. Her attend- 
ants were together in the presence-chamber, and 
much disposed to speculate on the delay of the 
dinner ; for it may be recollected that their break- 
fast had been interrupted. “ I believe in my con- 
science, ” said the page, “ that having found the 
poisoning scheme miscarry, by having gone to the 
wrong merchant for their deadly wares, they are 
now about to try how famine will work upon us. ” 
Lady Fleming was somewhat alarmed at this sur- 
mise, but comforted herself by observing, that the 
chimney of the kitchen had reeked that whole day 
in a manner which contradicted the supposition. — 
Catherine Seyton presently exclaimed, “ They were 


THE ABBOT. 


231 


bearing the dishes across the court, marshalled by 
the Lady Lochleven herself, dressed out in her 
highest and stiffest ruff, with her partlet and 
sleeves of Cyprus, and her huge old-fashioned 
farthingale of crimson velvet. ” 

“ T believe on my word, ” said the page, ap- 
proaching the window also, “ it was in that very 
farthingale that she captivated the heart of gentle 
King Jamie, which procured our poor Queen her 
precious bargain of a brother. ” 

That may hardly be. Master Eoland, ” answered 
the Lady Fleming, who was a great recorder of the 
changes of fashion, " since the farthingales came 
first in when the Queen Eegent went to Saint 
Andrews, after the battle of Pinkie, and were 

then called Vertugar dins'' 

She would have proceeded farther in this impor- 
tant discussion, but was interrupted by the en- 
trance of the Lady of Lochleven, who preceded the 
servants bearing the dishes, and formally discharged 
the duty of tasting each of them. Lady Fleming 
regretted, in courtly phrase, that the Lady of Loch- 
leven should have undertaken so troublesome an 
oiBfice. 

" After the strange incident of this day, madam, ” 
said the Lady, " it is necessary for my honour and 
that of my son, that I partake whatever is offered 
to my involuntary guest. Please to inform the 
Lady Mary that I attend her commands. ” 

“ Her Majesty, ” replied Lady Fleming, with due 
emphasis on the word, " shall be informed that the 
Lady Lochleven waits. ” 

Mary appeared instantly, and addressed her 
hostess with courtesy, which even approached to 
something more cordial. “ This is nobly done, 


232 


THE ABBOT. 


Lady Lochleven, ” she said ; " for though we our- 
selves apprehend no danger under your rodf, our 
ladies have been much alarmed by this morning’s 
chance, and our meal will be the more cheerful for 
your presence and assurance. Please you to sit 
down. ” 

The Lady Lochleven obeyed the Queen’s com- 
mands, and Eoland performed the office of carver 
and attendant as usual. But, notwithstanding 
what the Queen had said, the meal was silent and 
unsocial; and every effort which Mary made to 
excite some conversation, died away under the 
solemn and chill replies of the Lady of Lochleven. 
At length it became plain that the Queen, who 
had considered these advances as a condescension 
on her part, and who piqued herself justly on her 
powers of pleasing, became offended at the repul- 
sive conduct of her hostess. After looking with a 
significant glance at Lady Fleming and Catherine, 
she slightly shrugged her shoulders, and remained 
silent. A pause ensued, at the end of which the 
Lady Douglas spoke : — “I perceive, madam, I am 
a check on the mirth of this fair company. 1 pray 
you to excuse me — I am a widow — alone here in a 
most perilous charge — deserted by my grandson — 
betrayed by my servant — I am little worthy of 
the grace you do me in offering me a seat at your 
table, where I am aware that wit and pastime are 
usually expected from the guests. ” 

" If the Lady Lochleven is serious, ” said the 
Queen, “ we wonder by what simplicity she expects 
our present meals to be seasoned with mirth. If 
she is a widow, she lives honoured and uncon- 
trolled, at the head of her late husband’s house- 
hold. But I know at least of one widowed woman 


THE ABBOT. 


233 


in the world, before whom the words desertion and 
betrayal ought never to be mentioned, since no one 
has been made so bitterly acquainted with their 
import. ” 

“ I meant not, madam, to remind you of your 
misfortunes, by the mention of mine,” answered 
the Lady Lochleven, and there was again a deep 
' silence. 

Mary at length addressed Lady Fleming. We 
can commit no deadly sins here, ma bonne, where 
we are so well warded and looked to; but if we 
could, this Carthusian silence might be useful as 
a kind of penance. If thou hast adjusted my 
wimple amiss, my Fleming, or if Catherine hath 
made a wry stitch in her broidery, when she was 
thinking of something else than her work, or if 
Koland Graeme hath missed a wild-duck on the 
wing, and broke a quarrel-pane ^ of glass in the 
turret window, as chanced to him a week since, 
now is the time to think on your sins and to 
repent of them. ” 

" Madam, I speak with all reverence, ” said the 
Lady Lochleven ; “ but I am old, and claim the 
privilege of age. Methinks your followers migjit 
find fitter subjects for repentance than the trifles 
you mention, and so mention — once more, I crave 
your pardon — as if you jested with sin and repent- 
ance both. ” 

" You have been our taster. Lady Lochleven, ” 
said the Queen, “ I perceive you would eke out 
your duty with that of our Father Confessor — and 
since you choose that our conversation should be 
serious, may I ask you why the Kegent’s promise 

1 Diamond-shaped ; literally, formed like the head of a quarrel^ 
or arrow for the crossbow. 


234 


THE ABBOT. 


— since your son so styles himself — has not been 
kept to me in that respect? From time to time 
this promise has been renewed, and as constantly 
broken. Methinks those who pretend themselves 
to so much gravity and sanctity, should not debar 
from others the religious succours which their con- 
sciences require. ” 

“ Madam, the Earl of Murray was indeed weak 
enough, ” said the Lady Lochleven, “ to give so far 
way to your unhappy prejudices, and a religioner 
of the Pope presented himself on his part at our 
town of Kinross. But the Douglas is Lord of his 
own castle, and will not permit his threshold to 
be darkened, no, not for a single moment, by an 
emissary belonging to the bishop of Home. ” 

“ Methinks it were well, then, ” said Mary, 
* that my Lord Kegent would send me where there 
is less scruple and more charity. ” 

“ In this, madam, ” answered the Lady Loch- 
leven, “ you mistake the nature both of charity 
and of religion. Charity giveth to those who are 
in delirium the medicaments which may avail 
their health, but refuses those enticing cates and 
liquors which please the palate, but augment the 
disease. " 

“ This your charity. Lady Lochleven, is pure 
cruelty, under the hypocritical disguise of friendly 
care. I am oppressed amongst you as if you meant 
the destruction both of my body and soul; but 
Heaven will not endure such iniquity for ever, and 
they who are the most active agents in it may 
speedily expect their reward. ” 

At this moment Eandal entered the apartment, 
with a look so much perturbed, that the Lady 
Fleming uttered a faint scream, the Queen was 


THE ABBOT. 


23S 


obviously startled, and the Lady of Lochleven, 
though too hold and proud to evince any marked 
signs of alarm, asked hastily what was the 
matter ? 

“ Dryfesdale has been slain, madam, ” was the 
reply ; " murdered as soon as he gained the dry 
land by young Master Henry Seyton. ” 

It was now Catherine’s turn to start and grow 
pale — “ Has the murderer of the Douglas’s vassal 
escaped? ” was the Lady’s hasty question. 

“ There was none to challenge him but old 
Keltie, and the carrier Auchtermuchty, ” replied 
Eandal; “ unlikely .men to stay one of the frack- 
est ^ youths in Scotland of his years, and who was 
sure to have friends and partakers at no great 
distance. ” 

“ Was the deed completed ? ” said the*Lady. 

" Done, and done thoroughly, ” said Eandal ; “ a 
Seyton seldom strikes twice — But the body was 
not despoiled, and your honour’s packet goes for- 
ward to Edinburgh by Auchtermuchty, who leaves 
Keltie -Bridge early to-morrow — marry, he has 
drunk two bottles of aquavitse to put the fright out 
of his head, and now sleeps them off beside his 
cart-avers. ” ^ 

There was a pause when this fatal tale was told. 
The Queen and Lady Douglas looked on each other, 
as if each thought how she could best turn the in- 
cident to her own advantage in the controversy, 
which* was continually kept alive betwixt them — 
Catherine Seyton kept her kerchief at her eyes, 
and wept. 

” You see, madam, the bloody maxims and prac- 
tice of the deluded papists, ” said Lady Lochleven. 

1 Boldest — most forward ^ Cart-horses. 


236 


THE ABBOT. 


" Nay, madam, * replied the Queen, " say rather 
you see the deserved judgment of Heaven upon a 
Calvinistical poisoner. * 

" Dryfesdale was ndt of the Church of Geneva, or 
of Scotland, ” said the Lady Lochleven, hastily. 

“ He was a heretic, however, * replied Mary ; 
" there is but one true and unerring guide ; the 
others lead alike into error. " 

“ Well, madam, I trust it will reconcile you to 
your retreat, that this deed shows the temper of 
those who might wish you at liberty. Bloodthirsty 
tyrants, and cruel man-quellers are they all, from 
the Clan-Kanald and Clan-Tosach in the north, to 
the Ferniherst and Buccleuch in the south — the 
murdering Seytons in the east, and ” 

" Methinks, madam, you forget that I am a 
Seyton ? ” -said Catherine, withdrawing her ker- 
chief from her face, which was now coloured with 
indignation. 

“ If I had forgot it, fair mistress, your forward 
bearing would have reminded me,” said Lady 
Lochleven. 

" If my brother has slain the villain that would 
have poisoned his sovereign, and his sister, ” said 
Catherine, " I am only so far sorry that he should 
have spared the hangman his proper task. For 
aught further, had it been the best Douglas in the 
land, he would have been honoured in falling by 
the Seyton’s sword. ” 

"Farewell, gay mistress,” said the Lady of 
Lochleven, rising to withdraw ; " it is such mai* 
dens as you, who make giddy -fashioned revellers 
and deadly brawlers. Boys must needs rise, for- 
sooth, in the grace of some sprightly damsel, who 
thinks to dance through life as through a French 


THE ABBOT. 


237 

galliard. * She then made her reverence to the 
Queen, and added, * Do you also, madam, fare 
you well, till curfew time, when I will make, per- 
chance, more bold than welcome in attending upon 
your supper-board. — Come with me, Eandal, and 
tell me more of this cruel fact. ” 

“ ’Tis an extraordinary chance, ” said the Queen, 
when she had departed ; “ and, villain as he was, 
I would this man had been spared time for re- 
pentance. We will cause something to be done 
for his soul, if we ever attain our liberty, and the 
Church will permit such grace to an heretic. — But, 
tell me, Catherine, ma mignonne — this brother of 
thine, who is so frach, as the fellow called him, 
bears he the same wonderful likeness t.o thee as 
formerly ? ” 

“ If your Grace means in temper, you know 
whether I am so /rack as the serving-man spoke 
him. ” 

“ Nay, thou art prompt enough in all reasonable 
conscience, ” replied the Queen ; “ but thou art my 
own darling notwithstanding — But I meant, is 
this thy twin-brother as like thee in form and fea- 
tures as formerly? I remember thy dear mother 
alleged it as a reason for destining thee to the veil, 
that, were ye both to go at large, thou wouldst 
surely get the credit of some of thy brother’s mad 
pranks. ” 

“ I believe, madam,” said Catherine, " there are 
some unusually simple people even yet, who can 
hardly distinguish betwixt us, especially when, for 
diversion’s sake, my brother hath taken a female 
dress, ” — and, as she spoke, she gave a quick glance 
at Eoland Graeme, to whom this conversation con- 
veyed a ray of light, welcome as ever streamed 


238 


THE ABBOT. 


into . the dungeon of a captive through the door 
which opened to give him freedom. 

" He must be a handsome cavalier this brother 
of thine, if he be so like you,” replied Mary.^ 
" He was in France, I think, for these late years, 
so that I saw him not at Holyrood. ” 

“ His looks, madam, have never been much 
found fault with, ” answered Catherine Seyton ; 
“ but I would he had less of that angry and heady 
spirit which evil times have encouraged amongst 
our young nobles. God knows, I grudge not his 
life in your Grace’s quarrel; and love him for the 
willingness with which he labours for your rescue. 
But wherefore should he brawl with an old ruffianly 
serving-man, and stain at once his name with such 
a broil, and his hands with the blood of an old 
and ignoble wretch ? ” 

" Nay, be patient, Catherine ; I will not have thee 
traduce my gallant young knight. With Henry 
for my knight, and Boland Graeme for my trusty 
squire, methinks I am like a princess of romance, 
who may shortly set at defiance the dungeons and 
the weapons of all wicked sorcerers. — But my 
head aches with the agitation of the day. Take 
me La Mer des Histoires, and resume where we 
left off on Wednesday. — Our Lady help thy head, 
girl, or rather may she help thy heart ! — I asked 
thee for the Sea of Histories, and thou hast brought 
La Cronique d’ Amour ! ” 

Once embarked upon the Sea of . Histories, the 
Queen continued her labours with her needle, 
while Lady Fleming and Catherine read to her 
alternately for two hours. 

As to Boland Graeme, it is probable that he con- 
tinued in secret intent upon the Chronicle of Love, 


THE ABBOT. 


239 


notwithstanding the censure which the Queen 
seemed to pass upon that branch of study. He now 
remembered a thousand circumstances of voice and 
manner, which, had his own prepossession been 
less, must surely have discriminated the brother 
from the sister ; and he felt ashamed, that, having 
as it were by heart every particular of Catherine’s 
gestures, words, and manners, he should have 
thought her, notwithstanding her spirits and lev- 
ity, capable of assuming the bold step, loud tones, 
and forward assurance, which accorded well enough 
with her brother’s hasty and masculine character. 
He endeavoured repeatedly to catch a glance of 
Catherine’s eye, that he might judge how she was 
disposed to look upon him since he had made the 
discovery, but he was unsuccessful ; for Catherine, 
when she was not reading herself, seemed to take 
so much interest in the exploits of the Teutonic 
knights against the Heathens of Esthonia and 
Livonia, that he could not surprise her eye even 
for a second. But when, closing the book, the 
Queen commanded their attendance in the garden, 
Mary, perhaps of set purpose, (for Boland’s anxiety 
could not escape so practised an observer,) afforded 
him a favourable opportunity of accosting his mis- 
tress. The Queen commanded them to a little 
distance, while she engaged Lady Fleming in a 
particular and private conversation ; the subject 
w'hereof, we learn from another authority, to have 
been the comparative excellence of the high stand- 
ing ruff and the falling band. Boland must have 
been duller and more sheepish than ever was 
youthful lover, if he had not endeavoured to avail 
himself of this opportunity. 

“ I have been longing this whole evening to ask 


240 


THE ABBOT. 


of you, fair Catherine, ” said the page, “ how fool- 
ish and unapprehensive you must have thought 
me, in being capable to mistake betwixt your 
brother and you ? ” 

" The circumstance does indeed little honour to 
my rustic manners, ” said Catherine, “ since those 
of a wild young man were so readily mistaken for 
mine. But I shall grow wiser in time ; and with 
that view I am determined not to think of your 
follies, but to correct my own. ” 

“ It will be the lighter subject of meditation of 
the two, ” said Eoland. 

" I know not that, ” said Catherine, very gravely ; 
" 1 fear we have been both unpardonably foolish. ” 

“ I have been mad, ” said Eoland, " unpardonably 

mad. But you, lovely Catherine” 

“ I, ” said Catherine, in the same tone of unusual 
gravity, " have too long suffered you to use such 
expressions towards me — I fear I can permit it 
no longer, and I blame myself for the pain it may 
give you. ” 

“ And what can have happened so suddenly to 
change our relation to each other, or alter, with 
such sudden cruelty, your whole deportment to 
me ? ” 

" I can hardly tell, ” replied Catherine, " unless 
it is that the events of the day have impressed on 
my mind the necessity of our observing more dis- 
tance to each other. A chance similar to that 
which betrayed to you the existence of my brother, 
may make known to Henry the terms you have 
used to me ; and, alas ! his whole conduct, as well 
as his deed this day, makes me too justly appre- 
hensive of the consequences. ” 

"Nay, fear nothing for that, fair Catherine,” 


THE ABBOT. 


241 


answered the page ; “ I am well able to protect 
myself against risks of that nature. ” 

“ That is to say,” replied she, “ that you would 
fight with my twin-brother to show your regard for 
his sister ? I have heard the Queen say, in her sad 
hours, that men are, in love or in hate, the most 
selfish animals of creation; and your carelessness 
in this matter looks very like it. But he not so 
much abashed — you are no worse than others. ” 

“ You do me injustice, Catherine, ” replied the 
page, “ I thought but of being threatened with a 
sword, and did not remember in whose hand your 
fancy had placed it. If your brother stood before 
me, with his drawn weapon in his hand, so like as 
he is to you in word, person, and favour, he might 
shed my life’s blood ere I could find in my heart 
to resist him to his injury. ” 

“ Alas ! ” said she, “ it is not my brother alone. 
But you remember only the singular circumstances 
in which we have met in equality, and I may say 
in intimacy. You think not, that whenever I re- 
enter my father’s house, there is a gulf between us 
you may not pass, but with peril of your life. 
Your only known relative is of wild and singular 
habits, of a hostile and broken clan ^ — the rest of 
your lineage unknown — forgive me that T speak 
what is the undeniable truth. ” 

“ Love, my beautiful Catherine, despises geneal- 
ogies, ” answered Koland Graeme. 

“ Love may, but so will not the Lord Seyton, * 
rejoined the damsel. 

" The Queen, thy mistress and mine, she will 

1 A broken clan was one who had no chief able to find security 
for their good behaviour — a clan of outlaws ; and the Grsemes of 
the Debateable Land were in that condition. 

VOL. II.— >16 


242 


THE ABBOT. 


intercede. 0 ! drive me not from you at the mo- 
ment I thought myself most happy ! — and if I 
shall aid her deliverance, said not yourself that 
you and she would become my debtors ? ” 

“ All Scotland will become your debtors, ” said 
Catherine ; " but for the active effects you might 
hope from our gratitude, you must remember I am 
wholly subjected to my father ; and the poor Queen 
is, for a long time, more likely to be dependent on 
the pleasure of the nobles of her party, than pos- 
sessed of power to control them. ” 

“ Be it so, ” replied Eoland ; “ my deeds shall 
control prejudice itself — it is a bustling world, and 
I will have my share. The Knight of Avenel, high 
as he now stands, rose from as obscure an origin as 
mine. ” 

“ Ay ! ” said Catherine, “ there spoke the doughty 
knight of romance, that will cut his way to the 
imprisoned princess, through fiends and fiery 
dragons ! ” 

“ But if I can set the princess at large, and pro- 
cure her the freedom of her own choice, ” said the 
page, “ where, dearest Catherine, will that choice 
alight ? ” 

“ Eelease the princess from duresse, and she will 
tell you,” said the damsel; and breaking off the 
conversation abruptly, she joined the Queen, so 
suddenly, that Mary exclaimed, half aloud — 

“ No more tidings of evil import — no dissension, 
I trust, in my limited household ? ” — Then look- 
ing on Catherine’s blushing cheek, and Eoland’s 
expanded brow and glancing eye — “No — no, ” she 
said, “ I see all is well — Ma petite mignonne, go to 
my apartment and fetch me down — let me see — ■ 
ay, fetch my pomander box. ” 


THE ABBOT. 


243 


And having thus disposed of her attendant in 
the manner best qualified to hide her confusion, 
the Queen added, speaking apart to Eoland, “ I 
should at least have two grateful subjects of Cathe- 
rine and you ; for what sovereign but Mary would 
aid true love so willingly ? — Ay, you lay your 
hand on your sword — your petite flamberge a rien 
there — Well, short time will show if all the good 
be true that is protested to us — I hear them toll 
curfew from Kinross. To our chamber — this old 
dame hath promised to be with us again at our 
evening meal. Were it not for the hope of speedy 
deliverance, her presence would drive me dis- 
tracted. But I will be patient. ” 

“ I profess, ” said Catherine, who just then en- 
tered, “ I would I could be Henry, with all a man’s 
privileges for one moment — I long to throw my 
plate at that confect of pride, and formality, and 
ill-nature ! ” 

The Lady Fleming reprimanded her young com- 
panion for this explosion of impatience ; the Queen 
laughed, and they went to the presence-chamber, 
where almost immediately entered supper, and the 
Lady of the castle. The Queen, strong in her pru- 
dent resolutions, endured her presence with great 
fortitude and equanimity, until her patience was 
disturbed by a new form, which had hitherto made 
no part of the ceremonial of the castle. When the 
other attendant had retired, Eandal entered, bear- 
ing the keys of the castle fastened upon a chain, 
and, announcing that the watch was set, and the 
gates locked, delivered the keys with all reverence 
to the Lady of Lochleven. 

The Queen and her ladies exchanged with each 
other a look of disappointment, anger, and vexa- 


244 


THE ABBOT. 


tion ; and Mary said aloud, “We cannot regret the 
smallness of our court, when we see our hostess 
discharge in person so many of its offices. In ad- 
dition to her charges of principal steward of our 
household and grand almoner, she has to-night 
done duty as captain of our guard. ” 

“ And will continue to do so in future, madam, 
answered the Lady Lochleven, with much gravity ; 

“ the history of Scotland may teach me how ill the 
duty is performed, which is done by an accredited 
deputy — We have heard, madam, of favourites of 
later date, and as little merit, as Oliver Sinclair. ” ^ 

“ 0, madam, ” replied the Queen, “ my father 
had his female as well as his male favourites — 
there were the Ladies Sandilands and Olifaunt,^ 
and some others, methinks ; but their names can- 
not survive in the memory of so grave a person as 
you.” 

The Lady Lochleven looked as if she could have , 
slain the Queen on the spot, but commanded her 
temper, and retired from the apartment, bearing in 
her hand the ponderous bunch of keys. 

“ Now God be praised for that woman’s youthful 
frailty ! ” said the Queen. “ Had she not that 
weak point in her character, I might waste my 
words on her in vain — But that stain is the very 
reverse of what is said of the witch’s mark — I can 
make her feel there, though she is otherwise in- 
sensible all over. — But how say you, girls — here 
is a new difficulty — How are these keys to be 
come by ? — there is no deceiving or bribing this 
dragon, I trow. ” 

1 A favourite, and said to be an unworthy one, of James V. 

2 The names of these ladies, and a third frail favourite of James; 
are preserved in an epigram too gaillard for quotation. 


THE ABBOT. 


m 


“ May I crave to know, ” said Eoland, “ whether, 
if your Grace were beyond the walls of the castle, 
you could find means of conveyance to the firm 
land, and protection when you are there ? ” 

“ Trust us for that, Eoland, ” said the Queen ; 

“ for to that point our scheme is indifferent well 
laid. ” 

“ Then if your Grace will permit me to speak 
my mind, I think I could be of some use in this 
matter. ” 

“ As how, my good youth ? — speak on, ” said the 
Queen, “ and fearlessly^ ” 

“ My patron the Knight of Avenel used to com- 
pel the youth educated in his household to learn 
the use of axe and hammer', and working in wood 
and iron — he used to speak of old northern cham- 
pions, who forged their own weapons, and of the 
Highland Captain, Donald nan Ord, or Donald of 
the Hammer, whom he himself knew, and who 
used to work at the anvil with a sledge-hammer in 
each hand. Some said he praised this art, because ^ 
he was himself of churl’s blood. However, I' 
gained some practice in it, as the Lady Catherine 
Seyton partly knows; for since we were here I 
wrought her a silver brooch. ” 

“ Ay, ” replied Catherine, “ but you should tell 
her Grace that your workmanship was so indifferent 
that it broke to pieces next day, and I flung it 
away. ” 

“ Believe her not, Eoland, ” said the Queen ; 

" she wept when it was broken, and put the frag- 
ments into her bosom. But for your scheme 
could your skill avail to forge a second set of 
keys ? ” 

“ No, madam, because I know not the wards. 


246 


THE ABBOT. 


But I am convinced I could make a set so like tliat 
hateful bunch which the Lady bore off even now, 
that could they be exchanged against them by any 
means, she would never dream she was possessed 
of the wrong. ” 

“ And the good dame, thank Heaven, is somewhat 
blind, ” said the Queen ; " but then for a forge, my 
boy, and the means of labouring unobserved ? ” 

“ The armourer's forge, at which I used some- 
times to work with him, is the round vault at the 
bottom of the turret — he was dismissed with the 
warder for being supposed too much attached to 
George Douglas. The people are accustomed to see 
me busy there, and I warrant I shall find some ex- 
cuse that will pass current with them for putting 
bellows and anvil to work. ” 

“ The scheme has a promising face, ” said the 
Queen ; “ about it, my lad, with all speed, and 
beware the nature of your work is not discovered. ” 

“ Nay, I will take the liberty to draw the bolt 
against chance visitors, so that I will have time to 
put away what I am working upon, before I undo 
the door. ” 

“ Will not that of itself attract suspicion, in a 
place where it is so current already ? ” said 
Catherine. 

"Not a whit, ” replied Boland ; “ Gregory the 
armourer, and every good hammerman, locks him- 
self in when he is about some masterpiece of craft. 
Besides, something must be risked. ” 

" Part we then to-night, ” said the Queen, " and 
God bless you, my children! — If Mary’s head 
ever rises above water, you shall all rise along 
with her. ” 


CHAPTER XV. 


It is a time of danger, not of revel. 

When churchmen turn to masquers. 

Spanish Father, 

The enterprise of Eoland Graeme appeared to pros- 
per. A trinket or two, of which the work did not 
surpass the substance, (for the materials were sil- 
ver, supplied by the Queen,) were judiciously 
presented to those most likely to be inquisitive 
into the labours of the forge and anvil, which they 
thus were induced to reckon profitable to others, 
and harmless in itself. Openly, the page was seen 
working about such trifles. In private he forged a 
number of keys resembling so nearly in weight and 
in form those which were presented every evening 
to the Lady Lochleven, that, on a slight inspection, 
it would have been difficult to perceive the differ- 
ence. He brought them to the dark rusty colour 
by the use of salt and water ; and, in the triumph 
of his art, presented them at length to Queen Mary 
in her presence-chamber, about an hour before the ’ 
tolling of the curfew. She looked at them with 
pleasure, but at the same time with doubt. — “I 
allow, ” she said, “ that the Lady Lochleven ’s eyes, 
which are not of the clearest, may be well de- 
ceived, could we pass those keys on her in place of 
the real implements of her tyranny. But how is 
this to be done, and which of my little court dare 
attempt this tour de jongleur with any chance of 


248 


THE ABBOT. 


success ? Could we but engage her in some earnest 
matter of argument — but those which I hold with 
her, always have been of a kind which make her 
grasp her keys the faster, as if she said to herself 

— Here I hold what sets me above your taunts and 
reproaches — And even for her liberty, Mary Stew- 
art could not stoop to speak the proud heretic fair. 

— What shall we do? Shall Lady Fleming try 
her eloquence in describing the last new head-tire 
from Paris ? — Alas ! the good dame has not 
changed the fashion of her head-gear since Pinkie 
field, for aught that I know. Shall my mignonne 
Catherine sing to her one of those touching airs, 
which draw the very souls out of me and Poland 
Graeme ? — Alas ! Dame Margaret Douglas would 
rather hear a Huguenot psalm of Clement Marrot, 
sung to the tune of Beveillez vouSy helle endormie. — 
Cousins and liege counsellors, what is to be done, 
for our wits are really astray in this matter ? — 
Must our man-at-arms and the champion of our 
body, Poland Graeme, manfully assault the old lady, 
and take the keys from her par vote du fait ? ” 

"Hay! with your Grace’s permission,” said 
Poland, “ I do not doubt being able to manage the 
matter with more discretion ; for though, in your 
Grace’s service, I do not fear ” 

" A host of old women, ” interrupted Catherine, 
" each armed with rock and spindle, yet he has no 
fancy for pikes and partisans, which might rise at 
the cry of Help ! a DouglaSy a Douglas ! ” 

“ They that do not fear fair ladies’ tongues,” con- 
tinued the page, “ need dread nothing else. — But, 
gracious Liege, I am wellnigh satisfied that I could 
pass the exchange of these keys on the Lady Loch- 
leven ; but I dread the sentinel who is now planted 


THE ABBOT. 


249 


nightly in the garden, which, by necessity, we must 
traverse.” 

“ Our last advices from our friend on the shore 
have promised us assistance in that matter,” replied 
the Queen. 

“ And is your Grace well assured of the fidelity 
and watchfulness of those without?” 

“ For their fidelity, I will answer with my life, 
and for their vigilance, I will answer with my life. 
I will give thee instant proof, my faithful Koland, 
that they are ingenuous and trusty as thyself. Come 
hither — Nay, Catherine, attend us ; we carry not so 
deft a page into our private chamber alone. Make 
fast the door of the parlour, Fleming, and warn us 
if you hear the least step — or stay, go thou to the 
door, Catherine,” (in a whisper) “ thy ears and thy 
wits are both sharper. — Good Fleming, attend us 
thyself ” — (and again she whispered) “ her reverend 
presence will be as safe a watch on Roland as thine 
can — so be not jealous, mignonne” 

Thus speaking, they were lighted by the Lady 
Fleming into the Queen’s bedroom, a small apart- 
ment enlightened by a projecting window, 

“ Look from that window, Roland,” she said ; 
“see you amongst the several lights which begin 
to kindle, and to glimmer palely through the grey 
of the evening from the village of Kinross — seest 
thou, T say, one solitary spark apart from the others, 
and nearer it seems to the verge of the water ? — It 
is no brighter at this distance than the torch of the 
poor glow-worm, and yet, my good youth, that light 
is more dear to Mary Stewart, than every star that 
twinkles in the blue vault of heaven. By that signal, 
I know that more than one true heart are plotting 
my deliverance; and without that consciousness, 


250 


THE ABBOT. 


and the hope of freedom it gives me, I had \ong 
since stooped to my fate, and died of a broken heart. 
Plan after plan has been formed and abandoned, 
but still the light glimmers ; and while it glimmers, 
my hope lives. — 0 ! how many evenings have I sat 
musing in despair over our ruined schemes, and 
scarce hoping, that I should again see that blessed 
signal ; when it has suddenly kindled, and, like the 
lights of Saint Elmo in a tempest, brought hope 
and consolation, where there was only dejection and 
despair ! ” 

“ If I mistake not,” answered Eoland, “ the 
candle shines from the house of Blinkhoolie, the 
mail-gardener.” 

“ Thou hast a good eye,” said the Queen ; “ it is 
there where my trusty lieges — God and the saints 
pour blessings on them ! — hold consultation for my 
deliverance. The voice of a wretched captive would 
die on these blue waters, long ere it could mingle 
in their council; and yet I can hold communication 
— I will confide the whole to thee — I am about to 
ask those faithful friends, if the moment for the 
great attempt is nigh — Place the lamp in the 
window, Fleming.” 

She obeyed, and immediately withdrew it. No 
sooner had she done so, than the light in the cottage 
of the gardener disappeared. 

“ Now, count,” said Queen Mary, “ for my heart 
beats so thick that I cannot count myself.” 

The Lady Fleming began deliberately to count 
one, two, three, and when she had arrived at ten, the 
light on the shore again showed its pale twinkle. 

“ Now, our Lady be praised ! ” said the Queen ; 
“ it was but two nights since, that the absence of 
the light remained, while I could tell thirty. The 


THE ABBOT. 


251 


hour of deliverance approaches. May God bless 
those who labour in it with such truth to me! — • 
alas ! with such hazard to themselves — and bless 
you too, my children 1 — Come, we must to the 
audience-chamber again. Our absence might excite 
suspicion, should they serve supper.” 

They returned to the presence-chamber, and the 
evening concluded as usual. 

The next noon, at dinner-time, an unusual inci- 
dent occurred. While Lady Douglas of Lochleven 
performed her daily duty of assistant and taster at 
the Queen's table, she was told a man-at-arms had 
arrived recommended by her son, but without any 
letter or other token than what he brought by word 
of mouth. 

“ Hath he given you that token ? ” demanded the 
Lady. 

“ He reserved it, as I think, for your Ladyship's 
ear,” replied Eandal. 

“He doth well,” said the Lady ; “tell him to wait 
in the hall — But no *— with your permission, ma- 
dam,” (to the Queen) “let him attend me here.” 

“ Since you are pleased to receive your domes- 
tics in my presence,” said the Queen, “ I cannot 
choose ” 

“ My infirmities must plead my excuse, madam,” 
replied the Lady; “the life I must lead here ill 
suits with the years which have passed over my 
head, and compels me to wave ceremonial.” 

“0, my good Lady,” replied the Queen, “I 
would there were nought in this your castle more 
strongly compulsive than the cobweb chains of 
ceremony ; but bolts and bars are harder matters 
to contend with.” 

As she spoke, the person announced by Eandal 


252 


THE ABBOT. 


entered the room, and Koland Graeme at once 
recognised in him the Abbot Ambrosius. 

‘‘What is your name, good fellow?” said the 
Lady. 

“ Edward Glendinning,” answered the Abbot, 
with a suitable reverence. 

“ Art thou of the blood of the Knight of Avenel ? ” 
said the Lady of Lochleven. 

“ Ay, madam, and that nearly,” replied the pre- 
tended soldier. 

“It is likely enough,” said the Lady, “for the 
Knight is the son of his own good works, and has 
risen from obscure lineage to his present high rank 
in the Estate — But he is of sure truth and 
approved worth, and his kinsman is welcome to 
us. You hold, unquestionably, the true faith ?” 

“ Do not doubt of it, madam,” said the disguised 
churchman. 

“Hast thou a token to me from Sir William 
Douglas ? ” said the Lady. 

“I have, madam,” replied he; “but it must be 
said in private.” 

“Thou art right,” said the Lady, moving towards the 
recess of a window ; “ say in what does it consist ? ” 

“ In the words of an old bard,” replied the Abbot. 

“ Repeat them,” answered the Lady ; and he ut- 
tered, in a low tone, the lines from an old poem, 
called The Howlet, — 

“ 0, Douglas 1 Douglas ! 

Tender and true.” 

“Trusty Sir John Holland!” ^ said the Lady 
Douglas, apostrophizing the poet ; “ a kinder heart 

^ Sir John Holland’s poem of The Howlet is known to collectors 
by the beautiful edition presented to the Banuatyne Club by Mr 
David Laing. 


THE ABBOT. 


253 

never inspired a rhyme, and the Douglas’s honour 
was ever on thy harp-string ! We receive you among 
our followers, Glendinning — But, Eandal, see that 
he keep the outer ward only, till we shall hear more 
touching him from our son. — Thou fearest not the 
night air, Glendinning ? ” 

“ In the cause of the lady before whom I stand, I 
fear nothing, madam,” answered the disguised Abbot. 

“ Our garrison, then, is stronger by one trust- 
worthy soldier,” said the matron — “ Go to the but- 
tery, and let them make much of thee.” 

When the Lady Lochleven had retired, the Queen 
said to Eoland Graeme, who was now almost con- 
stantly in her company, “ I spy comfort in that 
stranger’s countenance ; I know not why it should 
be so, but I am well persuaded he is a friend.” 

“ Your Grace’s penetration does not deceive you,” 
answered the page ; and he informed her that the 
Abbot of Saint Mary’s himself played the part of 
the newly arrived soldier. 

The Queen crossed herself and looked upward. 

“ Unworthy sinner that I am,” she said, “ that for 
my sake a man so holy, and so high in spiritual 
office, should wear the garb of a base sworder, and 
run the, risk of dying the death, of a traitor ! ” 

“Heaven will protect its own servant, madam,” 
said Catherine Seyton ; “his aid would bring a 
blessing on our undertaking, were it not already 
blest for its own sake.” 

“What I admire in my spiritual father,” said 
Eoland, “ was the steady front with which he looked 
on me, without giving the least sign of former 
acquaintance. I did not think the like was pos- 
sible, since I have ceased to believe that Henry 
was the same person with Catherine.” 


iS4 


THE ABBOT. 


“ But marked you not how astuciously the good 
father,” said the Queen, “ eluded the questions of the 
woman Lochleven, telling her the very truth, which 
yet she received not as such ? ” 

Koland thought in his heart, that when the truth 
was spoken for the purpose of deceiving, it was 
little better than a lie in disguise. But it was no 
time to agitate such questions of conscience. 

“And now for the signal from the shore !” ex- 
claimed Catherine ; “ my bosom tells me we shall see 
this night two lights instead of one gleam from that 
garden of Eden — And then, Koland, do you play 
your part manfully, and we will dance on the green- 
sward like midnight fairies ! ” 

Catherine’s conjecture misgave not, nor deceived 
her. In the even?ing two beams twinkled from the 
cottage, instead of one ; and the page heard, with 
beating heart, that the new retainer was ordered to 
stand sentinel on the outside of the castle. When 
he intimated this news to the Queen, she held her 
hand out to him — he knelt, and when he raised it 
to his lips in all dutiful homage, he found it was 
damp and cold as marble. “For God’s sake, ma- 
dam, droop not now — sink not now ! ” 

“ Call upon Our Lady, my Liege,” said the Lady 
Fleming — call upon your tutelar saint.” 

“ Call the spirits of the hundred kings you are 
descended from ! ” exclaimed the page ; “ in this hour 
of need, the resolution of a monarch were worth the 
aid of a hundred saints.” 

“ 0 ! Koland Graeme,” said Mary, in a tone of 
deep despondency, “ be true to me — many have 
been false to me. Alas! I have not always been 
true to myself ! My mind misgives me that I shall 
die in bondage, and that this bold attempt will cost 


THE ABBOT. 


255 


all our lives. It was foretold me by a soothsayer 
in France, that I should die in prison, and by a vio- 
lent death, and here comes the hour — 0, would to 
God it found me prepared ! ” 

Madam,” said Catherine Seyton, remember 
you are a Queen. Better we all died in bravely at- 
tempting to gain our freedom, than remained here 
to be poisoned, as men rid them of the noxious ver- 
min that haunt old houses.” 

“ You are right, Catherine,” said the Queen ; and 
Mary will bear her like herself. But, alas ! your 
young and buoyant spirit can ill spell the causes 
which have broken mine. Forgive me, my children, 
and farewell for a while — I will prepare both mind 
and body for this awful venture.” 

They separated, till again called together by the 
tolling of the curfew. The Queen appeared grave, 
but firm and resolved ; the Lady Fleming, with the 
art of an experienced courtier, knew perfectly how 
to disguise her inward tremors ; Catherine’s eye was 
fired, as if with the boldness of the project, and the 
half smile which dwelt upon her beautiful mouth 
seemed to contemn all the risk and all the conse- 
quences of discovery ; Eoland, who felt how much 
success depended on his own address and boldness, 
summoned together his whole presence of mind, and 
if he found his spirits flag for a moment, cast his eye 
upon Catherine, whom he thought he had never seen 
look so beautiful. — may be foiled,” he thought, 
“ but with this reward in prospect, they must bring 
the devil to aid them ere they cross me.” Thus re- 
solved, he stood like a greyhound in the slips, 
with hand, heart, and eye intent upon making 
and seizing opportunity for the execution of their 
project. • 


256 


THE ABBOT. 


The keys had, with the wonted ceremonial, been 
presented to the Lady Lochleven. She stood, with 
her back to the casement, which, like that of the 
Queen’s apartment, commanded a view of Kinross, 
with the church, which stands at some distance from 
the town, and nearer to the lake, then connected 
with the town by straggling cottages. With her 
back to the casement, then, and her face to the 
table, on which the keys lay for an instant while she 
tasted the various dishes which were placed there, 
stood the Lady of Lochleven, more provokingly in- 
tent than usual — so at least it seemed to her pris- 
oners — upon the huge and heavy bunch of iron, the 
implements of their restraint. Just when, having 
finished her ceremony as taster of the Queen’s 
table, she was about to take up the keys, the page, 
who stood beside her, aijd had handed her the 
dishes in succession, looked sidewise to the church- 
yard, and exclaimed he saw corpse-candles in the 
vault. The Lady of Lochleven was not without a 
touch, though a slight one, of the superstitions of 
the time ; the fate of her sons made her alive to 
omens, and a corpse-light, as it was called, in the 
family burial-place, boded death. She turned her 
head towards the casement — saw a distant glim- 
mering — forgot her charge for one second, and in 
that second were lost the whole fruits of her former 
vigilance. The page held the forged keys under his 
cloak, and with great dexterity exchanged them for 
the real ones. His utmost address could not pre- 
vent a slight clash as he took up the latter bunch. 
“Who touches the keys?” said the Lady; and while 
the page answered that the sleeve of his cloak had 
stirred them, she looked round, possessed herself of 
the bunch which now occupied the place of the gen- 


THE ABBOT. 


2S7 


uine keys, and again turned to gaze at the supposed 
corpse-candles. 

“ I hold these gleams,” she said, after a moment’s 
consideration, “ to come, not from the churchyard, 
but from the hut of the old gardener Blink- 
hoolie. I wonder what thrift that churl drives, 
that of late he hath ever had light in his house 
till the night grew deep. I thought him an in- 
dustrious, peaceful man — ^ If he turns resetter of 
idle companions and night-walkers, the place must 
be rid of him.” 

“ He may work his baskets perchance,” said the 
page, desirous to stop the train of her suspicion. 

“ Or nets, may he not? ” answered the Lady. 

“ Ay, madam,” said Koland, “ for trout and 
salmon.” 

“ Or for fools and knaves,” replied the Lady ; 
“ but this shall be looked after to-morrow. — I wish 
your Grace and your company a good evening. — 
Kandal, attend us.” And Kandal, who waited in the 
antechamber after having surrendered his bunch 
of keys, gave his escort to his mistress as usual, 
while, leaving the Queen’s apartments, she retired 
to her own. 

“ To-morrow ? ” said the page, rubbing his hands 
with glee as he repeated the Lady’s last words, 
“fools look to to-morrow, and wise folk use to- 
night. — May I pray you, my gracious Liege, to 
retire for one half hour, until all the castle is 
composed to rest ? I must go and rub with oil 
these blessed implements of our freedom. Courage 
and constancy, and all will go well, provided our 
friends on the shore fail not to send the boat you 
spoke of.” 

“ Fear them not,” said Catherine, “ they are true 

VOL. II. — 7 


THE ABBOT. 


258 

as steel — if our dear mistress do but maintain her 
noble and royal courage.” ^ 

“ Doubt not me, Catherine,” replied the Queen ; 
“ a while since I was overborne, but I have recalled 
the spirit of my earlier and more sprightly days, 
When I used to accompany my armed nobles, and 
wish to be myself a man, to know what life it was 
to be in the fields with sword and buckler, jack and 
knapscap ! ” 

“ 0, the lark lives not a gayer life, nor sings a 
lighter and gayer song, than the merry soldier,” 
answered Catherine. “ Your Grace shall be in the 
midst of them soon, and the look of such a liege 
Sovereign will make each of your host worth three 
in the hour of need : — but I must to my task.” 

“We have but brief time,” said Queen Mary ; 
“ one of the two lights in the cottage is extinguished 
— that shows the boat is put off.” 

“ They will row very slow,” said the page, “ or 
kent where depth permits, to avoid noise. — To our 
several tasks — I will communicate with the good 
Father.” 

At the dead hour of midnight, when all was silent 
in the castle, the page put the key into the lock of 
the wicket which opened into the garden, and which 
was at the bottom of a staircase that descended from 
the Queen’s apartment. “ Now, turn smooth and 
softly, thou good bolt,” said he, “ if ever oil softened 
rust ! ” and his precautions had been so effectual, 
that the bolt revolved with little or no sound of re- 
sistance. He ventured not to cross the threshold, 
but exchanging a word with the disguised Abbot, 
asked if the boat were ready ? 

“ This half hour,” said the sentinel. “ She lies 
^ Note IV. — Demeanour of Queen Mary. 


THE ABBOT. 


259 


beneath the wall, too close under the islet to be seen 
by the warder, but I fear she will hardly escape his 
notice in putting off again.” 

“ The darkness,” said the page, " and our pro- 
found silence, may take her off unobserved, as she 
came in. Hildebrand has the watch on the tower — 
a heavy-headed knave, who holds a can of ale to be 
the best head-piece upon a night-watch. He sleeps 
for a wager.” 

“ Then bring the Queen,” skid the Abbot, “ and I 
will call Henry Seyton to assist them to the boat.” 

On tiptoe, with noiseless step and suppressed 
breath, trembling at every rustle of their own ap- 
parel, one after another the fair prisoners glided 
down the winding stair, under the guidance of Eo- 
land Graeme, and were received at the wicket-gate 
by Henry Seyton and the churchman. The former 
seemed instantly to take upon himself the whole 
direction of the enterprise. “ My Lord Abbot,” he 
said, “ give my sister your arm — I will conduct the 
Queen — and that youth will have the honour to 
guide Lady Fleming.” 

This was no time to dispute the arrangement, al- 
though it was not that which Eoland Graeme would 
have chosen. Catherine Seyton, who well knew the 
garden path, tripped on before like a sylph, rather 
leading the Abbot than receiving assistance — the 
Queen, her native spirit prevailing over female fear, 
and a thousand painful reflections, moved steadily 
forward, by the assistance of Henry Seyton — while 
the Lady Fleming encumbered with her fears and 
her helplessness Eoland Graeme, who followed in the 
rear, and who bore under the other arm a packet 
of necessaries belonging to the Queen. The door of 
the garden, which . communicated with the shore 0/ 


26 o 


THE ABBOT. 


the islet, yielded to one of the keys of which Roland 
had possessed himself, although not until he had tried 
several, — a moment of anxious terror and expecta- 
tion. The ladies were then partly led, partly car- 
ried, to the side of the lake, where a boat with six 
rowers attended them, the men couched along the 
bottom to secure them from observation. Henry 
Seyton placed the Queen in the stern ; the Abbot 
offered to assist Catherine, but she was seated by 
the Queen’s side before he could utter his proffer of 
help ; and Roland Graeme was just lifting Lady 
Fleming over the boat-side, when a thought sud- 
denly occurred to him, and exclaiming, “Forgotten, 
forgotten ! wait for me but one half minute,” he 
replaced on the shore the helpless lady of the bed- 
chamber, threw the Queen’s packet into the boat, 
and sped back through the garden with the noiseless 
speed of a bird on the wing. 

“By Heaven, he is false at last!” said Seyton; 
“ I ever feared it ! ” 

“ He is as true,” said Catherine, “ as Heaven it- 
self, and that I will maintain.” 

“ Be silent, minion,” said her brother, “ for shame, 
if not for fear — Fellows, put off, and row for your 
lives ! ” 

“ Help me, help me on board I ” said the de- 
serted Lady Fleming, and that louder than prudence 
warranted. 

“ Put off — put off ! " cried Henry Seyton ; leave 
all behind, so the Queen is safe.” 

“ Will you permit this, madam ? ” said Catherine, 
imploringly ; “ you leave your deliverer to death.” 

“ I will not,” said the Queen. — “ Seyton, I com- 
mand you to stay at every risk.” 

“ Pardon me, madam, if I disobey,” said the in- 


THE ABBOT. 


261 


tractable young man ; and with one hand lifting in 
Lady Fleming, he began himself to push off the boat. 

She was two fathoms’ length from the shore, and 
the rowers were getting her head round, when 
Koland Graeme, Arriving, bounded from the beach, 
and attained the boat, overturning Seyton, on whom 
he lighted. The youth swore a deep but suppressed 
oath, and stopping Graeme as he stepped towards 
the stern, said, “ Your place is not with high-born 
dames — keep at the head and trim the vessel — 
ISTow give way — give way — Kow, for God and 
the Queen !” 

The rowers obeyed, and began to pull vigorously. 

“ Why did you not muffle the oars ? ” said Eoland 
Graeme ; “ the dash must awaken the sentinel — 
Eow, lads, and get out of reach of shot ; for had not 
old Hildebrand, the warder, supped upon poppy-por- 
ridge, this -whispering must have waked him.” 

“ It was all thine own delay,” said Seyton ; ** thou 
shalt reckon with me hereafter for that and other 
matters.” 

But Boland’s apprehension was verified too in- 
stantly to permit him to reply. The sentinel, 
whose slumbering had withstood the whispering, was 
alarmed by the dash of the oars. His challenge was 
instantly heard. “A boat — a boat !-^ bring to, or 
I shoot ! ” And, as they continued to ply their oars, 
he called aloud, “ Treason ! treason ! ” rung the bell 
of the castle, and discharged his harquebuss at the 
boat. The ladies crowded on each other like startled 
wild-fowl, at the flash and report of the piece, while 
the men urged the rowers to the utmost speed. 
They heard more than one ball whiz along the sur- 
face of the lake, at no great distance from their 
little bark ; and from the lights, which glanced like 


262 


THE ABBOT. 


meteors from window to window, it was evident 
the whole castle was alarmed, and their escape 
discovered. 

“ Pull ! ” again exclaimed Seyton ; “ stretch to 
your oars, or I will spur you to the task with my 
dagger — they will launch a boat immediately.” 

“ That is cared for,” said Poland ; “ I locked gate 
and wicket on them when I went back, and no 
boat will stir from the island this night, if doors of 
good oak and bolts of iron can keep men within 
stone- walls. — And now I resign my office of por- 
ter of Lochleven, and give the keys to the Kelpie’s 
keeping.” 

As the heavy keys plunged in the lake, the Abbot, 
who till then had been repeating his prayers, eX' 
claimed, “Now, bless thee, my son ! for thy ready 
prudence puts shame on us all.” ^ 

“ I knew,” said Mary, drawing her breath more 
freely, as they were now out of reach of the mus- 
ketry — “I knew my squire’s truth, promptitude, 
and sagacity. — I must have him dear friends with 
my no less true knights, Douglas and Seyton — 
but where, then, is Douglas ? ” 

“Here, madam,” answered the deep and melan- 
choly voice of the boatman who sat next her, and 
who acted as steersman. 

“ Alas ! was it you who stretched your body be- 
fore me,” said the Queen, “ when the balls were 
raining around us ? ” 

“ Believe you,” said he, in a low tone, “ that 
Douglas would have resigned to any one the chance 
of protecting his Queen’s life with his own ? ” 

The dialogue was here interrupted by a shot or 
two from one of those small pieces of artillery 
^ Note V. — Escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven. (A) 


THE ABBOT. 


263 

called falconets, then used in defending castles. 
The shot was too vague to have any effect, but the 
broader flash, the deeper sound, the louder return 
which was made by the midnight echoes of Bennarty, 
terrified and imposed silence on the liberated pris- 
oners. The boat was alongside of a rude quay or 
landing-place, running out from a garden of consid- 
erable extent, ere any of them again attempted to 
speak. They landed, and- while the Abbot returned 
thanks aloud to Heaven, which had thus far fav- 
oured their enterprise, Douglas enjoyed the best re- 
ward of his desperate undertaking, in conducting 
the Queen to the house of the gardener. Yet, not 
unmindful of Eoland Graeme even in that moment 
of terror and exhaustion, Mary expressly commanded 
Seyton to give his assistance to Fleming, while 
Catherine voluntarily, and without bidding, took 
the arm of the page. Seyton presently resigned 
Lady Fleming to the care of the Abbot, alleging he 
must look after their horses ; and his attendants, 
disencumbering themselves of their boat-cloaks, 
hastened to assist him. 

While Mary spent in the gardener’s cottage the 
few minutes which were necessary to prepare the 
steeds for their departure, she perceived in a cor- 
ner, the old man to whom the garden belonged, and 
called him to approach. He came as it were with 
reluctance. 

How, brother,” said the Ahbot, “ so slow to 
welcome thy royal Queen and mistress to liberty 
and to her kingdom ! ” 

The old man, thus admonished, came forward, and, 
in good terms of speech, gave her Grace joy of 
her deliverance. The Queen returned him thanks 
in the most gracious manner, and added, “It wiU 


264 


THE ABBOT. 


remain to us to offer some immediate reward for 
your fidelity, for we wot well your house has been 
long the refuge in which our trusty servants have 
met to concert measures for our freedom.” So say- 
ing, she offered gold, and added, “We will consider 
your services more fully hereafter.” 

“ Kneel, brother,” said the Abbot, “ kneel in- 
stantly, and thank her Grace’s kindness.” 

“ Good brother, that wert once a few steps under 
me, and art still very many years younger,” replied 
the gardener, pettishly, “let me do mine acknow- 
ledgments in my own way. Queens have knelt to 
me ere now, and in truth my knees are too old and 
stiff to bend even to this lovely-faced lady. — May 
it please your Grace, if your Grace’s servants have 
occupied my house, so that I could not call it mine 
own — if they have trodden down my flowers in the 
zeal of their midnight comings and goings, and 
destroyed the hope of the fruit season, by bringing 
their war-horses into my garden, I do but crave of 
your Grace in requital, that you will choose your 
residence as far from me as possible. I am an 
old man, who would willingly creep to my grave 
as easily as I can, in peace, good-will, and quiet 
labour.” 

“I promise you fairly, good man,” said the 
Queen, “I will not make yonder castle my residence 
again, if I can help it. But let me press on you this 
money — it will make some amends for the havoc 
we have made in your little garden and orchard.” 

“I thank your Grace, but it will make me not 
the least amends,” said the old man. “ The ruined 
labours of a whole year are not so easily replaced 
to him who has perchance but that one year to live 
and besides, they tell me I must leave this place. 


THE ABBOT. 


265 

and become a wanderer in mine old age — I that 
have nothing on earth saving these fruit-trees, and 
a few old parchments and family secrets not worth 
knowing. As for gold, if I had loved it, I might 
have remained Lord Abbot of Saint Mary’s — and 
yet, I wot not — r for, if Abbot Boniface be but the 
poor peasant Blinkhoolie, his successor, the Abbot 
Ambrosius, is still transmuted for the worse into 
the guise of a sword-and-buckler-man.” 

“ Ha ! Is this indeed the Abbot Boniface of 
whom I have heard?” said the Queen. “It is 
indeed I who should have bent the knee for your 
blessing, good Father!” 

“Bend no knee to me. Lady! The blessing of 
an old man, who is no longer an Abbot, go with 
you over dale and down — I hear the trampling of 
your horses.” 

“Farewell, Father,” said the Queen. “When 
we are once more seated at Holyrood, we will 
neither forget thee nor thine injured garden.” 

“Forget us both,” said the Ex- Abbot Boniface, 
“ and may God be with you ! ” 

As they hurried out of the house, they heard the 
old man talking and muttering to himself, as he 
hastily drew bolt and bar behind them. 

“The revenge of the Douglasses will reach the 
poor old man,” said the Queen. “ God help me, I 
ruin every one whom I approach ! ” 

“ His safety is cared for,” said Seyton ; “ he must 
not remain here, but will be privately conducted to 
a place of greater security. But I would your Grace 
were in the saddle. — To horse ! to horse ! ” 

The party of Seyton and of Douglas were in- 
creased to about ten by those attendants who had 
remained with the horses. The Queen and her 


266 


THE ABBOT. 


ladies, with all the rest who came from the boat, 
were instantly mounted ; and holding aloof from the 
village, which was already alarmed by the firing 
from the castle, with Douglas acting as their guide, 
they soon reached the open ground, and began to 
ride as fast as was consistent with keeping together 
in good order. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


He mounted himself on a coal-black steed. 

And her on a freckled grey. 

With a bugelet horn hung down from his side. 

And roundly they rode away. 

Old Ballad, 

The influence of the free air, the rushing of the 
horses over high and low, the ringing of the bridles, 
the excitation at once arising from a sense of free- 
dom and of rapid motion, gradually dispelled the 
confused and dejected sort of stupefaction by which 
Queen Mary was at first overwhelmed. She could 
not at last conceal the change of her feelings to the 
person who rode at her rein, and who she doubted 
not was the Father Ambrosius ; for Seyton, with 
all the heady impetuosity of a youth, proud, and 
justly so, of his first successful adventure, assumed 
all the bustle and importance of commander of 
the little party, which escorted, in the language of 
the time, the Fortune of Scotland. He now led the 
van, now checked his bounding steed till the rear 
had come up, exhorted the leaders to keep a steady, 
though rapid pace, and commanded those who were 
hindmost of the party to use their spurs, and allow 
no interval to take place in their line of march ; and 
anon he was beside the Queen, or her ladies, en- 
quiring how they brooked the hasty journey, and 
whether they had any commands for him. But while 
Seyton thus busied himself in the general cause with 


268 


THE ABBOT. 


some advantage to the regular order of the march, 
and a good deal of" personal ostentation, the horse- 
man who rode beside the Queen gave her his full 
and undivided attention, as if he had been waiting 
upon some superior being. When the road was 
rugged and dangerous, he abandoned almost entirely 
the care of his own horse, and kept his hand con- 
stantly upon the Queen’s bridle ; if a river or larger 
brook traversed their course, his left arm retained 
her in the saddle, while his right held her palfrey’s 
rein. 

“ I had not thought, reverend Father,” said the 
Queen, when they reached the other bank, “ that 
the convent bred such good horsemen.” — The per- 
son she addressed sighed, but made no other answer. 
— “I know not how it is,” said Queen Mary, “ but 
either the sense of freedom, or the pleasure of my 
favourite exercise, from which I have been so long 
debarred, or both combined, seem to have given 
wings to me — no fish ever shot through the water, 
no bird through the air, with the hurried feeling of 
liberty and rapture with which I sweep through this 
night-wind, and over these wolds. Nay, such is the 
magic of feeling myself once more in the saddle, 
that I could almost swear I am at this moment 
mounted on my own favourite Kosabelle, who was 
never matched in Scotland for swiftness, for ease of 
motion, and for sureness of foot.” 

“ And if the horse which bears so dear a burden 
could speak,” answered the deep voice of the mel- 
ancholy George of Douglas, “would- she not reply, 
who but Eosabelle ought at such an emergence as 
this to serve her beloved mistress, or who but 
Douglas ought to hold her bridle-rein!” 

Queen Mary started ; she foresaw at once all the 


THE ABBOT. 


269 

evils like to arise to herself and him from the deep 
enthusiastic passion of this youth ; but her feelings 
as a woman, grateful at once and compassionate, 
prevented her assuming the dignity of a Queen, and 
she endeavoured to continue the conversation in an 
indifferent tone. 

“Methought,” she said, “I heard that, at the 
division of my spoils, Kosabelle had become the 
property of Lord Morton’s paramour and ladye-love, 
Alice.” 

The noble palfrey had indeed been destined to 
so base a lot,” answered Douglas ; “ she was kept 
under four keys, and under the charge of a numer- 
ous crew of grooms and domestics — but Queen 
Mary needed Kosabelle, and Kosabelle is here.” 

“ And was it well, Douglas,” said Queen Mary, 
“when such fearful risks of various kinds must 
needs be encountered, that you should augment 
their perils to yourself, for a subject of so little 
moment as a palfrey ? ” 

“Do you call that of little moment,” answered 
Douglas, “ which has afforded you a moment’s plea- 
sure ? — Did you not start with joy when I first said 
you were mounted on Kosabelle ? — And to purchase 
you that pleasure, though it were to last no longer 
than the flash of lightning doth, would not Douglas 
have risked his life a thousand times ? ” 

“ 0, peace, Douglas, peace,” said the Queen, 
“ this is unfitting language ; and, besides, I would 
speak,” said she, recollecting herself, “ with the 
Abbot of Saint Mary’s — Nay, Douglas, I will not 
let you quit my rein in displeasure.” 

Displeasure, lady ! ” answered Douglas ; “ alas ! 
sorrow is all that I can feel for your well- warranted 
contempt — I should be as soon displeased with 


270 


THE ABBOT. 


Heaven for refusing the wildest wish which mortal 
can form.’* 

** Abide by my rein, however,” said Mary, “ there 
is room for my Lord Abbot on the other side ; and, 
besides, I doubt if his assistance would be so useful 
to Eosabelle and me as yours has been, should the 
road again require it.” 

The Abbot came up on the other side, and she 
immediately opened a conversation with him on the 
topic of the state of parties, and the plan fittest for 
her to pursue in consequence of her deliverance. In 
this conversation Douglas took little share, and never 
but when directly applied to by the Queen, while, 
as before, his attention seemed entirely engrossed 
by the care of Mary’s personal safety. She learned, 
however, she had a new obligation to him, since, by 
his contrivance, the Abbot, whom he had furnished 
with the family pass-word, was introduced into the 
castle as one of the garrison. 

Long before daybreak they ended their hasty and 
perilous journey before the gates of Niddrie, a 
castle in West Lothian, belonging to Lord Seyton. 
When the Queen was about to alight, Henry Sey- 
ton, preventing Douglas, received her in his arms, 
and, kneeling down, prayed her Majesty to enter the 
house of his father, her faithful servant. 

‘‘Your Grace,” he added, “may repose yourself 
here in perfect safety — it is already garrisoned with 
good men for your protection ; and I have sent a 
post to my father, whose instant arrival, at the head 
of five hundred men, may be looked for. Do not 
dismay yourself, therefore, should your sleep be 
broken by the trampling of horse ; but only think 
that here are some scores more of the saucy Sey- 
tons come to attend you.” 


THE ABBOT. 


271 


And by better friends than the saucy Seytons, 
a Scottish Queen cannot be guarded,” replied Mary. 
“ Eosabelle went fleet as the summer breeze, and 
wellnigh as easy ; but it is long since I have been 
a traveller, and I feel that repose will be welcome. — 
Catherine, ma mignonne, you must sleep in my apart- 
ment to-night, and bid me welcome to your noble 
father’s castle. — Thanks, thanks to all my kind de- 
liverers — thanks, and a good-night is all I can now 
offer ; but if I climb once more to the upper side 
of Fortune’s wheel, I will not have her bandage. 
Mary Stewart will keep her eyes open, and dis- 
tinguish her friends. — Seyton, I need scarcely re- 
commend the venerable Abbot, the Douglas, and my 
page, to your honourable care and hospitality.” 

Henry Seyton bowed, and Catherine and Lady 
Fleming attended the Queen to her apartment; 
where, acknowledging to them that she should have 
found it difficult in that moment to keep her pro- 
mise of holding her eyes open, she resigned herself 
to repose, and awakened not till the morning was 
advanced. 

Mary’s first feeling when she awoke, was the 
doubt of her freedom; and the impulse prompted 
her to start from bed, and hastily throwing her 
mantle over her shoulders, to look out at the casement 
of her apartment. 0 sight of joy ! instead of the 
crystal sheet of Lochleven, unaltered save by the in- 
fluence of the wind, a landscape of wood and moor- 
land lay before her, and the park around the castle 
was occupied by the troops of her most faithful and 
most favourite nobles. 

“ Rise, rise, Catherine,” cried the enraptured 
Princess; “arise and come hither! — here are swords 
and spears in true hands, and glittering armour on 


272 


THE ABBOT. 


loyal breasts. Here are banners, my girl, floating 
in the wind, as lightly as summer clouds — Great 
God ! what pleasure to my weary eyes to trace their 
devices — thine own brave father’s — the princely 
Hamilton’s — the faithful Fleming’s — See — see — 
they have caught a glimpse of me, and throng to- 
wards the window !” 

She flung the casement open, and with her bare 
head, from which the tresses flew back loose and 
dishevelled, her fair arm, slenderly veiled by her 
mantle, returned by motion and sign the exulting 
shouts of the warriors, which echoed for many a 
furlong around. When the first burst of ecstatic 
joy was over, she recollected how lightly she was 
dressed, and, putting her hands to her face, which 
was covered with blushes at the recollection, with- 
drew abruptly from the window. The cause of her 
retreat was easily conjectured, and increased the 
general enthusiasm for a Princess, who had forgot- 
ten her rank in her haste to acknowledge the ser- 
vices of her subjects. The unadorned beauties of 
the lovely woman, too, moved the military spectators 
more than the highest display of her regal state 
might ; and what might have seemed too free in her 
mode of appearing before them, was more than 
atoned for by the enthusiasm of the moment, and 
by the delicacy evinced in her hasty retreat. Often 
as the shouts died away, as often were they renewed 
till wood and hill rung again ; and many a deep 
oath was made that morning on the cross of the 
sword, that the hand should not part with the 
weapon, till Mary Stewart was restored to her 
rights. But what are promises, what the hopes of 
mortals ? In ten days these gallant and devoted 
votaries were slain, were captives, or had fled. 


THE ABBOT. 


273 


Mary flung herself into the nearest seat, and still 
blushing, yet half smiling, exclaimed, “Jfa mig- 
nonne, what will they think of me ? — to show my^ 
self to them with my bare feet hastily thrust into 
the slippers — only this loose mantle about me — 
my hair loose on my shoulders — my arms and neck 
so bare — 0, the best they can suppose is, that her 
abode in yonder dungeon has turned their Queen’s 
brain ! But my rebel subjects saw me exposed when 
I was in the depth of affliction, why should I hold 
colder ceremony with these faithful and loyal men ? 
— Call Flennng, however — I trust she has not for- 
gotten the little mail with my apparel — We must 
be as brave as we can, mignonney 

" Nay, madam, our good Lady Fleming was in no 
case to remember any thing.” 

“ You jest, Catherine,” said the Queen, somewhat 
offended ; “ it is not in her nature, surely, to forget 
her duty so far as to leave us without a change of 
apparel ? ” 

“ Eoland Graeme, madam, took care of that,” an- 
swered Catherine ; “ for he threw the mail, with your 
highness’s clothes and jewels, into the boat, ere he 
ran back to lock the gate — I never saw so awkward 
a page as that youth — the packet wellnigh fell on 
my head.” 

“ He shall make thy heart amends, my girl,” said 
Queen Mary, laughing, for that and all other of- 
fences given. But call Fleming, and let us put our- 
selves into apparel to meet our faithful lords.” 

Such had been the preparations, and such was the 
skill of Lady Fleming, that the Queen appeared be- 
fore her assembled nobles in such attire as became, 
though it could not enhance, her natural dignity. 
With the most winning courtesy, she expressed to 

VOL. II. — 18 


274 


THE ABBOT. 


each individual her grateful thanks, and dignified 
not only every noble, but many of the lesser barons, 
by her particular attention. 

And whither now, my lords ? ” she said ; " wha^; 
way do your counsels determine for us ? ” 

“To Draphane Castle,” replied Lord Arbroath, 
“ if your Majesty is so pleased ; and thence to Dun- 
barton, to place your Grace’s person in safety, after 
which we long to prove if these traitors will abide 
us in the field.” 

“ And when do we journey ? ” 

“ We propose,” said Lord Seyton, “if your Grace’s 
fatigue will permit, to take horse after the morning’s 
meal.” 

“Your pleasure, my lords, is mine,” replied the 
Queen ; “ we will rule our journey by your wisdom 
now, and hope hereafter to have the advantage of 
governing by it our kingdom. — You will permit my 
ladies and me, my good lords, to break our fast 
along with you — We must be half soldiers our- 
selves, and set state apart.” 

Low bowed many a helmeted head at this gra- 
cious proffer, -when the Queen, glancing her eyes 
through the assembled leaders, missed both Douglas 
and Eoland Graeme, and enquired for them in a 
whisper to Catherine Seyton. 

“ They are in yonder oratory, madam, sad enough,” 
replied Catherine ; and the Queen observed that her 
favourite’s eyes were red with weeping. 

“ This must not be,” said the Queen. “ Keep the 
company amused — I will seek them, and introduce 
them myself.” 

She went into the oratory, where the first she met 
was George Douglas, standing, or rather reclining, 
in the recess of a window, his back rested against 


THE ABBOT. 


275 


the wall, and his arms folded on his breast. At the 
sight of the Queen he started, and his countenance 
showed, for an instant, an expression of intense de- 
light, which was instantly exchanged for his usual 
deep melancholy. 

“ What means this ? ” she said ; “ Douglas, why 
does the first deviser and bold executor of the happy 
scheme for our freedom, shun the company of his 
fellow nobles, and of the Sovereign whom he has 
obliged ? ” 

“ Madam,” replied Douglas, “ those whom you 
grace with your presence bring followers to aid 
your cause, wealth to support your state, — can 
offer you halls in which to feast, and impreg- 
nable castles for your defence. I am a houseless 
and landless man — disinherited by my mother, 
and laid under her malediction disowned by my 
name and kindred — who bring nothing to your 
standard but a single sword, and the poor life of 
its owner.” 

“ Do you mean to upbraid me, Douglas,” replied 
the Queen, “ by showing what you have lost for 
my sake ? ” 

“ God forbid, madam ! ” interrupted the young ^ 
man, eagerly ; “ were it to do again, and had I ten 
times as much rank and wealth, and twenty times 
as many friends to lose, my losses would be over- 
paid by the first step you made, as a free princess, 
upon the soil of your native kingdom.” 

“And what then ails you, that you will not 
rejoice with those who rejoice upon the same 
joyful occasion?” said the Queen. 

“ Madam,” replied the youth, “ though exheridated 
and disowned, I am yet a Douglas : with most of 
yonder nobles my family have been in feud for ages 


276 


THE ABBOT. 


— a cold reception amongst them were an insult, 
and a kind one yet more humiliating.” 

“ For shame, Douglas,” replied the Queen, “ shake 
off this unmanly gloom ! — I can make thee match 
for the best of them in title and fortune, and, 
believe me, I will. — Go then amongst them, I 
command you.” 

‘‘^That word,” said Douglas, “is enough — I go. 
This only let me say, that not for wealth or title 
would I have done that which I have done — Mary 
Stewart will not, and the Queen cannot, reward 
me.” 

So saying, he left the oratory, mingled with the 
nobles, and placed himself at the bottom of the 
table. The Queen looked after him, and put her 
kerchief to her eyes. 

“Now, Our Lady pity me,” she said, “for no 
sooner are my prison cares ended, than those which 
beset me as a woman and a queen again thicken 
around me. — Happy Elizabeth ! to whom political 
interest is every thing, and whose heart never 
betrays thy head. — And now must I seek this other 
boy, if I would prevent daggers-drawing betwixt 
him and the young Seyton.” 

Koland Graeme was in the same oratory, but at 
such a distance from Douglas, that he could not 
overhear what passed betwixt the Queen and him. 
He also was moody and thoughtful, but cleared his 
brow at the Queen’s question, “ How now, Eoland ? 
you are negligent in your attendance this morn- 
ing. Are you so much overcome with your night’s 
ride ? ” 

“Not so, gracious madam,” answered Grseme; 
“ but I am told the Page of Lochleven is not the 
Page of Niddrie-Castle ; and so Master Henry Sey- 


THE ABBOT. 277 

ton hath in a manner been pleased to supersede 
my attendance.” 

“Now, Heaven forgive me,” said the Queen, 
“how soon these cock-chickens begin to spar! — 
with children and boys, at least, I may be a queen. 
— I will have you friends. — Some one send me 
Henry Seyton hither.” As she spoke the last words 
aloud, the youth whom she had named entered the 
apartment. “ Come hither,” she said, “ Henry Sey- 
ton — I will have you give your hand to this youth, 
who so well aided in the plan of my escape.” 

“ Willingly, madam,” answered Seyton, “ so that 
the youth will grant me, as a boon, that he touch 
not the hand of another Seyton whom he knows of. 
My hand has passed current for hers with him 
before now — and to win my friendship, he must 
give up thoughts of my sister’s love.” 

“ Henry Seyton,” said the Queen, “ does it be- 
come you to add any condition to my command ? ” 
“Madam,” said Henry, “I am the servant of 
your Grace’s throne, son to the most loyal man in 
Scotland. Our goods, our castle, our blood, are 
yours : Our honour is in our own keeping. I could 
say more, but ” 

“Nay, speak on, rude boy,” said the Queen; 
“ what avails it that I am released from Lochleven, 
if I am thus enthralled under the yoke of my pre- 
tended deliverers, and prevented from doing justice 
to one who has deserved as well of me as yourself?’* 
“ Be not in this distemperature for me, sovereign 
Lady,” said Boland; “this young gentleman, be- 
ing the faithful servant of your Grace, and the 
brother of Catherine Seyton, bears that about him 
wmcn will cnarm down my passion at the hottest.** 
“I warn thee once more,” said Henry Seyton, 


278 


THE ABBOT. 


haughtily, "that you make no speech which may 
infer that the daughter of Lord Seyton can be aught 
to thee beyond what she is to every churl’s blood 
in Scotland.” 

The Queen was again about to interfere, for Eo- 
land’s complexion rose, and it became somewhat 
questionable how long his love for Catherine would 
suppress the natural fire of his temper. But the 
interposition of another person, hitherto unseen, 
prevented Mary’s interference. There was in the 
oratory a separate shrine, enclosed with a high screen 
of pierced oak, within which was placed an image 
of Saint Bennet, of peculiar sanctity. From this 
recess, in which she -had been probably engaged in 
her devotions, issued suddenly Magdalen Graeme, 
and addressed Henry Seyton, in reply to his last 
offensive expressions — "And of what clay, then, 
are they moulded these Seytons, that the blood of 
the Graemes may not aspire to mingle with theirs ? 
Know, proud boy, that when I called this youth my 
daughter’s child, I affirm his descent from Malise 
Earl of Strathern, called Malise with the bright 
brand ; and I trow the blood of your house springs 
from no higher source.” 

"Good mother,” said Seyton, "methinks your 
sanctity should make you superior to these worldly 
vanities ; and indeed it seems to have rendered you 
somewhat oblivious touching them, since, to be of 
gentle descent, the father’s name and lineage must 
be as well qualified as the mother’s.” 

" And if I say he comes of the blood of Avenel 
by the father’s side,’-’ replied Magdalen Graeme, 
" name I not blood as richly coloured as thine own ? ” 

"Of Avenel?” said the Queen; "is my page 
descended of Avenel ? ” 


THE ABBOT. 


279 


“Ay, gracious Princess, and the last male-heir 
of that ancient house — Julian Avenel was his 
father, who fell in battle against the Southron.” 

“ I have heard the tale of sorrow,” said the Queen ; 
“it was thy daughter, then, who followed that un- 
fortunate baron to the field, and died on his body ? 
Alas ! how many ways does woman’s affection find 
to work out her own misery ! The tale has oft been 
told and sung in hall and bower — And thou, Poland, 
art that child of misfortune, who was left among 
the dead and dying? Henry Seyton, he is thine 
equal in blood and birth.” 

“ Scarcely so,” said Henry Seyton, “ even were 
he legitimate ; but if the tale . be told and sung 
aright, Julian Avenel was a false knight, and his 
leman a frail and credulous maiden.” 

“Now, by Heaven, thou liest!” said Poland 
Graeme, and laid his hand on his sword. The en- 
trance of Lord Seyton, however, prevented violence. 

“ Save me, my lord,” said the Queen, “ and separ- 
ate these wild and untamed spirits.” 

“ How, Henry ! ” said the Baron, “ are my castle, 
and the Queen’s presence, no checks on thine inso- 
lence and impetuosity ? — And with whom art thou 
brawling ? — unless my eyes spell that token false, 
it is with the very youth who aided me so gallantly 
in the skirmish with the Leslies — Let me look, fair 
youth, at the medal which thou wearest in thy cap. 
By Saint Bennet, it is the same ! — Henry, I com- 
mand thee to forbear him, as thou lovest my 
blessing ” 

“And as you honour my command,” said the 
Queen ; “ good service hath he done me.” 

“ Ay, madam,” replied young Seyton, “ as when 
he carried the billet, enclosed in the sword-sheath, 


28 o 


THE ABBOT. 


to Lochleven — Marry, the good youth knew no 
more than a pack-horse what he was carrying.’’ 

“ But I, who dedicated him to this great work,” 
said Magdalen Graeme — “I, by whose advice and 
agency this just heir hath been unloosed from her 
thraldom — I, who spared not the last remaining 
hope of a falling house in this great action — I, ‘at 
least, knew and counselled ; and what merit may he 
mine, let the reward, most gracious Queen, descend- 
upon this youth. My ministry here is ended ; you 
are free — a sovereign Princess, at the head of a 
gallant army, surrounded by valiant barons — My 
service could avail you no farther, but might well 
prejudice you ; your fortune now rests upon men’s 
hearts and men’s swords — May they prove as trusty 
as the faith of women !” 

“ You will not leave us, mother,” said the Queen 
— “ you whose practices in our favour were so 
powerful, who dared so many dangers, and wore so 
many disguises, to blind our enemies and to con- 
firm our friends — you will not leave us in the dawn 
of our reviving fortunes, ere we have time to know 
and to thank you ? ” 

“You cannot know her,” answered Magdalen 
Graeme, “ who knows not herself — there are times, 
when, in this woman’s frame of mine, there is the 
strength of him of Gath — in this overtoiled brain, 
the wisdom of the most sage counsellor — and again 
the mist is on me, and my strength is weakness, my 
wisdom folly. I have spoken before princes and car- 
dinals — ay, noble Princess, even before the princes 
of thine own house of Lorraine; and I know not 
whence the words of persuasion came which flowed 
from my lips, and were drunk in by their ears. — 
And now, even when I most need words of persua- 


THE ABBOT. 


28t 


sion, there is something which chokes my voice, and 
robs me of utterance.” 

“ If there be aught in my power to do thee pleas- 
ure,” said the Queen, “ the barely naming it shall 
avail as well as all thine eloquence.” 

‘‘Sovereign Lady,” replied the enthusiast, “it 
shames me that at this high moment something of 
human frailty should cling to one, whose vows the 
saints have heard, whose labours in the rightful 
cause Heaven has prospered. But it will be thus, 
while the living spirit is shrined in the clay of mor- 
tality — I will yield to the folly,” she said, weeping 
as she spoke, “ and it shall be the last.” Then seiz- 
ing Boland’s hand, slie led him to the Queen's feet, 
kneeling herself upon one knee, and causing him to 
kneel on both. “ Mighty Princess,” she said, “ look 
on this flower — it was found by a kindly stranger 
on a bloody field of battle, and long it was ere my 
anxious eyes saw, and my arms pressed, all that was 
left of my only daughter. For your sake, and for 
that of the holy faith we both profess, I could leave 
this plant, while it was yet tender, to the nurture 
of strangers — ay, of enemies, by whom, perchance, 
his blood would have been poured forth as wine, 
had the heretic Glendinning known that he had in 
his house the heir of Julian Avenel. Since then I 
have seen him only in a few hours of doubt and 
dread, and now I part with the child of my love — 
for ever — for ever ! — 0, for every weary step I 
have made in your rightful cause, in this and in 
foreign lands, give protection to the child whom I 
must no more call mine ! ” 

“ I swear to you, mother,” said the Queen, deeply 
affected, “ that, for your sake and his own, his hajK 
piness and fortune shall be our charge ! ” 


£82 


THE ABBOT. 


“ I thank you, daughter of princes,” said Magda- 
len, and pressed her lips, first to the Queen’s hand, 
then to the brow of her grandson. “ And now,” 
she said, drying her tears, and rising with dignity, 
“Earth has had its own, and Heaven claims the 
rest. — Lioness of Scotland, go forth and conquer ! 
and if the prayers of a devoted votaress can avail 
thee, they will rise in many a land, and from many 
a distant shrine. I will glide like a ghost from land 
to land, from temple to temple ; and where the very 
name of my country is unknown, the priests shall 
ask who is the Queen of that distant northern clime, 
for whom the aged pilgrim was so fervent in prayer. 
Farewell ! Honour be thine, and earthly prosperity, 
if it be the will of God — if not, may the penance 
thou shalt do here ensure thy happiness hereafter ! 

— Let no one speak or follow me — my resolution 
is taken — my vow cannot be cancelled.” 

She glided from their presence as she spoke, and 
her last look was upon her beloved grandchild. He 
would have risen and followed, but the Queen and 
Lord Seyton interfered. 

“ Press not on her now,” said Lord Seyton, “ if 
you would not lose her for ever. Many a time have 
we seen the sainted mother, and often at the most 
needful moment but to press on her privacy, or to 
thwart her purpose, is a crime which she cannot 
pardon. I trust we shall yet see her at her need 

— a holy woman she is for certain, and dedicated 
wholly to prayer and penance ; and hence the here- 
tics hold her as one distracted, while true Catholics 
deem her a saint.” 

“ Let me then hope,” said the Queen, “ that you, 
my lord, will aid. me in the execution of her last 
request.” 


THE ABBOT. 


283 


“ What I in the protection of my young second ? 

— cheerfully — that is, in all that your majesty can 
think it fitting to ask of me. — Henry, give thy hand 
upon the instant to Eoland Avenel, for so I presume > 
he must now he called.” 

“And shall be Lord of the Barony,” said the 
Queen, “ if God prosper our rightful arms.” 

“It can only be to restore it to my kind protec- 
tress, who now holds it,” said young Avenel. “I 
would rather be landless all my life, than she lost 
a rood of ground by me.” 

“ Nay,” said the Queen, looking to Lord Seyton, 

“ his mind matches his birth — Henry, thou hast 
not yet given thy hand.” 

“ It is his,” said Henry, giving it with some ap- 
pearance of courtesy, but whispering Eoland at 
the same time, — “ For all this thou hast not my 
sister’s.” 

“May it please your Grace,” said Lord Seyton, 

“ now that these passages are over, to honour our 
poor meal. Time it were that our banners were 
reflected in the Clyde. We must to horse with as 
little delay as may be.” 


CHAPTEE XVII 


Ay, sir — our ancient crown, in these wild times, 

Oft stood upon a cast — the gamester’s ducat, 

So often staked, and lost, and then regain’d, 

Scarce knew so many hazards. 

The Spanish Father. 

It is not our object to enter into the historical 
part of the reign of the ill-fated Mary, or to recount 
how, during the week which succeeded her flight 
from Lochleven, her partisans mustered around 
her with their followers, forming a gallant army, 
amounting to six thousand men. So much light has 
been lately thrown on the most minute details of 
the period, by Mr. Chalmers, in his valuable His- 
tory of Queen Mary, that the reader may be safely 
referred to it for the fullest information which an^ 
cient records afford concerning that interesting time. 
It is sufficient for our purpose to say, that while 
Mary’s head-quarters were at Hamilton, the Ee- 
gent and his adherents had, in the King’s name, 
assembled a host at Glasgow, inferior indeed to that 
of the Queen in numbers, but formidable from the 
military talents of Murray, Morton, the Laird of 
Grange, and others, who had been trained from 
their youth in foreign and domestic wars. 

In these circumstances, it was the obvious policy 
of Queen Mary to avoid a conflict, secure that were 
her person once in safety, the number of her adhe- 
rents must daily increase ; whereas, the forces, of 
those opposed to her must, as had frequently 


THE ABBOT. 


28s 

happened in the previous history of her reign, have 
diminished, and their spirits become broken. And so 
evident was this to her counsellors, that they re- 
solved their first step should be to place the Queen 
in the strong castle of Dunbarton, there to await the 
course of events, the arrival of succours from France, 
and the levies which were made by her adherents 
in every province in Scotland. Accordingly, orders 
were given that all men should be on horseback or 
on foot, apparelled in their armour, and ready to 
follow the Queen’s standard in array of battle, the 
avowed determination being to escort her to the 
castle of Dunbarton in defiance of her enemies. 

The muster was made upon Hamilton-Moor, and 
the march commenced in all* the pomp of feudal 
times. Military music sounded, banners and pen- 
nons waved, armour glittered far and wide, and 
spears glanced and twinkled like stars in a frosty 
sky. The gallant spectacle of warlike parade was 
on this occasion dignified by the presence of the 
Queen herself, who, with a fair retinue of ladies and 
household attendants, and a special guard of gentle- 
men, amongst whom young Seyton and Eoland were 
distinguished, gave grace at once and confidence to 
the army, which spread its ample files before, around, 
and behind her. Many churchmen also joined the 
cavalcade, most of whom did not scruple to assume 
arms, and declare their intention of wielding them 
in defence of Mary and the Catholic faith. Not 
so the Abbot of Saint Mar/s. Eoland had not 
seen this prelate since the night of their escape 
from Lochleven, and he now beheld him, robed in 
the^dress of his order, assume his station near the 
Queen’s person. Eoland hastened to pull off his 
basnet, and beseech the Abbot’s blessing. 


286 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Thou hast it, my son ! ” said the priest ; “ I see 
thee now under thy true name, and in thy rightful 
garb. The helmet with the holly branch befits your 
brows well — I have long waited for the hour thou 
shouldst as&ume it.” 

“Then you knew of my descent, my good fa- 
ther ? ” said Eoland. 

“ I did so, but it was under seal of confession 
from thy grandmother ; nor was I at liberty to tell 
the secret, till she herself should make it known.” 

“ Her reason for such secrecy, my father ? ” said 
Eoland Avenel. 

“Fear, perchance, of my brother — a mistaken 
fear, for Halbert would not, to ensure himself a 
kingdom, have offered wrong to an orphan ; be- 
sides that your title, in quiet times, even had your 
father done your mother that justice which I well 
hope he did, could not have competed with that 
of my brother’s wife, the child of Julian’s elder 
brother.” 

“ They need fear no competition from me,” said 
Avenel. “ Scotland is wide enough, and there are 
many manors to win, without plundering my bene- 
factor. But prove to me, my reverend father, that 
my father was just to my mother — show me that I 
may call myself a legitimate Avenel, and make me 
your bounden slave for ever ! ” 

“Ay,” replied the Abbot, “I hear the Seytons 
hold thee cheap for that stain on thy shield. Some- 
thing, however, I have learnt from the late Abbot 
Boniface, which, if it prove sooth, may redeem that 
reproach.” 

“ Tell me that blessed news,” said Eoland, “^nd 
the future service of my life ” — 

“ Eash boy ! ” said the Abbot, “ I should but mad- 


THE ABBOT, 


287 

den thine impatient temper, by exciting hopes that 
may never be fulfilled — and is this a time for them ? 
Think on what perilous march we are bound, and 
if thou hast a sin unconfessed, neglect not the only 
leisure which Heaven may perchance afford thee 
for confession and absolution.” 

“There will be time enough for both, I trust, 
when we reach Dunbarton,” answered the page. 

“ Ay,” said the Abbot, “ thou crowest as loudly 
as the rest — but we are not yet at Dunbarton, and 
there is a lion in the path.” 

“ Mean you Murray, Morton, and the other 
rebels at Glasgow, my reverend father ? Tush ! they 
dare not look on the royal banner.” 

“ Even so,” replied the Abbot, “ speak many of 
those who are older, and should be wiser, than thou. 
— I have returned from the southern shires, where 
I left many a chief of name arming in the Queen’s 
interest — I left the lords here wise and considerate 
men — I find them madmen on my return — they 
are willing, for mere pride and vainglory, to brave 
the enemy, and to carry the Queen, as it were in 
triumph, past the walls of Glasgow, and under the 
beards of the adverse army. — Seldom does Heaven 
smile on such mistimed confidence. We shall be 
encountered, and that to the purpose.” 

“ And so much the better,” replied Eoland, “ the 
field of battle was my cradle.” 

“ Beware it be not thy dying bed,” said the 
Abbot. “But what avails it whispering to young 
wolves the dangers of the chase ? You will know, 
perchance, ere this day is out, what yonder men are, 
whom you hold in fash contempt.” 

“ Why, what are they ? ” said Henry Seyton, who 
now joined them : “ have they sinews of wire, and 


288 


THE ABBOT. 


flesli of iron ? — Will lead pierce and steel cut them I 
— If so, reverend father, we have little to fear.” 

“ They are evil men,” said the Abbot, “ but the 
trade of war demands no saints. — Murray and Mor- 
ton are known to be the best generals in Scotland. 
No one ever saw Lindesay’s or Euthven’s back — 
Kirkaldy of Grange was named by the Constable 
Montmorency the first soldier in Europe — My 
brother, too good a name for such a cause, has been 
far and wide known for a leader.” 

“ The better, the better ! ” said Sey ton, triumph- 
antly ; “ we shall have all these traitors of rank and 
name in a fair field before us. Our cause is the best, 
our numbers are the strongest, our hearts and limbs 
match theirs — Saint Bennet, and set on ! ” 

The Abbot made no reply, but seemed lost in re- 
flection ; and his anxiety in some measure commu- 
nicated itself to Eoland Avenel, who ever, as their 
line of march led over a ridge or an eminence, cast 
an anxious look towards the towers of Glasgow, as 
if he expected to see symptoms of the enemy issu- 
ing forth. It was not that he feared the fight, but 
the issue was of such deep import to his country, 
and to himself, that the natural fire of his spirit 
burned with a less lively, though with a more in- 
tense glow. Love, honour, fame, fortune, all seemed 
to depend on the issue of one field, rashly hazarded 
perhaps, but now likely to become unavoidable and 
decisive. 

When, at length, their march came to be nearly 
parallel with the city of Glasgow, Eoland became 
sensible that the high grounds before them were 
already in part occupied by a force, showing, like 
their own, the royal banner of Scotland, and on the 
point of being supported by columns of infantry and 


THE ABBOT. 


289 

squadrons of horse, which the city gates had poured 
forth, and which hastily advanced to sustain those 
troops w'-ho already possessed the ground in front 
of the Queen’s forces. Horseman after horseman 
galloped in from the advanced guard, with tidings 
that Murray had taken the field with his whole army ; 
that his object was to intercept the Queen’s march, 
and his purpose unquestionable to hazard a battle. 
It was now that the tempers of men were subjected 
to a sudden and a severe trial; and that those who 
had too presumptuously concluded that they should 
pass without combat, were something disconcerted, 
when, at once, and with little time to deliberate, 
they found themselves placed in front of a reso- 
lute enemy. — Their chiefs immediately assembled 
around the Queen, and held a hasty council of war. 
Mary’s quivering lip confessed the fear which she 
endeavoured to conceal under a bold and dignified 
demeanour. But her efforts were overcome by pain- 
ful recollections of the disastrous issue of her last 
appearance in arms at Carberry-hill ; and when 
she meant to have asked them their advice for 
ordering the battle, she involuntarily enquired 
whether there were no means of escaping without 
an engagement ? 

“ Escaping ? ” answered the Lord Seyton ; “ when 
I stand as one to ten of your Highness’s enemies, I 
may think of escape — but never while I stand with 
three to two ! ” 

“ Battle ! battle ! ” exclaimed the assembled lords ; 
“ we will drive the rebels from their vantage ground, 
as the hound turns the hare on the hill side.” 

“ Methinks, my noble lords,” said the Abbot, “ it 
were as well to prevent his gaining that advantage. ‘ 
— Our road lies through yonder hamlet on the brow, 

VOL. II. — 19 


THE ABBOT. 


290 

and whichever party hath the luck to possess it, with 
its little gardens and enclosures, will attain a post of 
great defence.” 

“The reverend father is right,” said the Queen. 
“0, haste thee, Seyton, haste, and get thither 
before them — they are marching like the wind.” 
Seyton bowed low, and turned his horse’s head. 

— “ Your Highness honours me,” he said ; “ I will 
instantly press forward, and seize the pass.” 

“Not before me, my lord, whose charge is the 
command of the vanguard,” said the Lord of 
Arbroath. 

“ Before you, or any Hamilton in Scotland,” said 
the Seyton, “having the Queen’s command — Fol- 
low me, gentlemen, my vassals and kinsmen — Saint 
Bennet, and set on ! ” 

“ And follow me,” said Arbroath, “ my noble 
kinsmen, and brave men-tenants, we will see which 
■ will first reach the post of danger. For God and 
Queen Mary ! ” 

“ Ill-omened haste, and most unhappy strife,” 
said the Abbot, who saw them and their followers 
rush hastily and emulously to ascend the height, 
without waiting till their men were placed in order. 

— “ And you, gentlemen,” he continued, address- 
ing Eoland and Seyton, who were each about to 
follow those who hastened thus disorderly to 
the conflict, “ will you leave the Queen’s person 
unguarded ? ” 

“ 0, leave me not, gentlemen ! ” said the Queen, 

— “ Eoland and Seyton, do not leave me — there 
are enough of arms to strike in this fell combat — 
withdraw not those to whom I trust for my safety ! ” 

“We may not leave her Grace,” .said Eola-id, 
looking at Seyton, and turning his horse. 


THE ABBOT. 291 

“ I ever looked when thou wouldst find out that,” 
rejoined the fiery youth. 

Eoland made no answer,. but bit his lip till the 
blood came, and spurring his horse up to the side 
of Catherine Sey ton’s palfrey, he whispered in a 
low voice, “ I never thought to have done aught 
to deserve you ; but this day I have heard myself 
upbraided with cowardice, and my sword remained 
still sheathed, and all for the love of you.” 

“ There is madness among us all,” said the dam- 
sel ; “ my father, my brother, and you, are all alike 
bereft of reason. Ye should think only of this poor 
Queen, and you are all inspired by your own ab- 
surd jealousies — The Monk is the only* soldier and 
man of sense amongst you all. — My Lord Abbot,” 
she cried aloud, “ were it not better we should draw 
to the westward, and wait the event that God shall 
send us, instead of remaining here in the highway, 
endangering the Queen’s person, and cumbering the 
troops in their advance ? ” 

“You say well, my daughter,” replied the Ab- 
bot ; “ had we but one to guide us where the Queen’s 
person may be in safety — Our nobles hurry to the 
conflict, without casting a thought on the very cause 
of the war.” 

“Follow me,” said a knight, or man-at-arms, 
well mounted, and accoutred completely in black 
armour, but having the visor of his helmet closed, 
and bearing no crest on his helmet, or device upon 
his shield. 

“We will follow no stranger,” said the Abbot, 
“ without some warrant of his truth.” 

“I am a stranger and in your hands,” said the 
horseman ; “ if you wish to know more of me, the 
Queen herself will be your warrant.” 


THE ABBOT. 


igi 

The Queen had remained fixed to the spot, as if 
disabled by fear, yet mechanically smiling, bowing, 
and waving her hand, as. banners were lowered and 
spears depressed before her, while, emulating the 
strife betwixt Seyton and Arbroath, band on band 
pressed forward their march towards the enemy. 
Scarce, however, had the black rider whispered 
something in her ear, than she assented to what he 
said ; and when he spoke aloud, and with an air of 
command, “ Gentlemen, it is the Queen’s pleasure 
that you should follow me,” Mary uttered, with 
something' like eagerness, the word “ Yes.” 

All were in motion in an instant ; for the black 
horseman, throwing off a sort of apathy of manner, 
which his first appearance indicated, spurred his 
horse to and fro, making him take such active bounds 
and short turns, as showed the rider master of the 
animal ; and getting the Queen’s little retinue in 
some order for marching, he led them to the left, 
directing his course towards a castle, which, crown- 
ing a gentle yet commanding eminence, presented 
an extensive view over the country beneath, and in 
particular, commanded a view of those heights which 
both armies hastened to occupy, and which it was 
now apparent must almost instantly be the scene of 
struggle and dispute. 

“ Yonder towers,” said the Abbot, questioning 
the sable horseman, “ to whom do .they belong ? — 
and are they now in the hands of friends ? ” 

“They are untenanted,” replied the stranger, 
“ or, at least, they have no hostile inmates — But 
urge these youths. Sir Abbot, to make more haste 
— this is but an evil time to satisfy their idle curi- 
osity, by peering out upon the battle in which they 
are to take no share.” 


I 


THE ABBOT. 293 

“ The worse luck mine,” said Henry Seyton, who 
overheard him ; “ I would rather be under my 
father’s banner at this moment than be made 
Chamberlain of Holyrood, for this my present duty 
of peaceful ward well and patiently discharged.” 

“ Your place under your father’s banner will 
shortly be right dangerous,” said Eoland Avenel, 
who, pressing his horse towards the westward, had 
still his look reverted to the armies ; ‘‘ for I see 
yonder body of cavalry, which presses from the east- 
ward, will reach the village ere Lord Seyton can 
gain it.” 

“They are but cavalry,” said Seyton, looking 
attentively; “they cannot hold the village without 
shot of harquebuss.” 

“ Look more closely,” said Eoland ; “ you will see 
that each of these horsemen who advance so rapidly 
from Glasgow, carries a footman behind him.” 

“Now, by Heaven, he speaks well!” said the 
black cavalier ; “ one of you two must go carry the 
news to Lord Seyton and Lord Arbroath, that they 
hasten not their horsemen on before the foot, but 
advance more regularly.” 

“ Be that my errand,” said Eoland, “ for I first 
marked the stratagem of the enemy.” 

“But, by your leave,” said Seyton, “yonder is 
my father’s banner engaged, and it best becomes 
me to go to the rescue.” 

“ I will stand by the Queen’s decision,” said 
Eoland Avenel. 

“ What new appeal ? — what new quarrel ? ” said 
Queen Mary — “ Are there not in yonder dark host 
enemies enough to Mary Stewart, but must her very 
friends turn enemies to each other ? ” 

“Nay, madam,” said Eoland, “the young MaS' 


294 


THE ABBOT. 


ter of Seyton and I did but dispute who should 
leave your person to do a most needful message to 
the host. He thought his rank entitled him, and 
I deemed that the person of least consequence, 
being myself, were better perilled ” 

“ Hot so,” said the Queen ; “ if one must leave 
me, be it Seyton.” 

Henry Seyton bowed till the white plumes on his 
helmet mixed with the flowing mane of his gallant 
war-horse, then placed himself firm in the saddle, 
shook his lance aloft with an air of triumph and 
determination, and striking his horse with the spurs, 
made towards h'is father’s banner, which was still 
advancing up the hill, and dashed his steed over 
every obstacle that occurred in his headlong path. 

“ My brother ! my father ! ” exclaimed Catherine, 
with an expression of agonized apprehension — 
“ they are in the midst of peril, and I in safety !” 

'‘Would to God,” said Koland, “that I were 
with them, and could ransom every drop of their 
blood by two of mine ! ” 

“Do I not know thou dost wish it ? ” said Catherine 

— “ Can a woman say to a man what I have well- 
nigh said to thee, and yet think that he could har- 
bour fear or faintness of heart ? — There is that in 
yon distant sound of approaching battle that pleases 
me even while it affrights me. I would I were a 
man, that I might feel that stern delight, without 
the mixture of terror ! ” 

“ Hide up, ride up, I^ady Catherine Seyton,” cried 
the Abbot, as they still swept on at a rapid pace, 
and were now close beneath the walls of the castle 

— “ ride up, and aid Lady Fleming to support the 
Queen — she gives way more and more.” 

They halted and lifted Mary from the saddle, and 


THE ABBOT. 


295 


were about to support her towards the castle, when 
she said faintly, “Not there — not there — these 
walls will I never enter more ! ” 

“ Be a Queen, madam,” said the Abbot, “ and for- 
get that you are a woman.” 

“ 0, 1 must forget much, much more,” answered the 
unfortunate Mary, in an under tone, “ ere I can look 
with steady eyes on these well-known scenes I — I 
must forget the days which I spent here as the bride 

of the lost — the murdered” 

“ This is the Castle of Crookstone,” said the Lady 
Fleming, “ in which the Queen held her first court 
after she was married to Darnley.” ’ 

“ Heaven,” said the Abbot, “ thy hand is upon us . 
— Bear yet up, madam — your foes are the foes of 
Holy Church, and God will this day decide whether 
Scotland shall be Catholic or heretic.” 

A heavy and continued fire of cannon and mus- 
ketry bore a tremendous burden to his words, and 
seemed far more than they to recall the spirits of the 
Queen. 

“ To yonder tree,” she said, pointing to a yew-tree 
which grew on a small mount close to the castle ; 
“ I know it well — from thence you may see a pros- 
pect wide as from the peaks of Schehallion.” 

And freeing herself from her assistants, she walked 
with a determined, yet somewhat wild step, up to 
the stem of the noble yew. The Abbot, Catherine, 
and Eoland Avenel followed her, while Lady Flem- 
ing kept back the inferior persons of her train. The 
black horseman also followed the Queen, waiting on 
her as closely as the shadow upon the light, but ever 
remaining at the distance of two or three yards — he 
folded his arms on his bosom, turned his back to the 
battle, and seemed solely occupied by gazing on 


THE ABBOT. 


296 

Mary, through the bars of his closed visor. The 
Queen regarded him not, but fixed her eyes upon the 
spreading yew. 

“ Ay, fair and stately tree,” she said, as if at the 
sight of it she had been rapt away from the present 
scene, and had overcome the horror which had op- 
pressed her at the first approach to Crookstone, “there 
thou standest, gay and goodly as ever, though thou 
hearest the sounds of war, instead of the vows of love. 
All is gone since I last greeted thee — love and lover 
— vows and vower — king and kingdom. — How goes 
the field, my Lord Abbot ? — with us, I trust — yet 
what but evil can Mary’s eyes witness from this spot! ” 

Her attendants eagerly bent their eyes on the field 
of battle, but could discover nothing more than that 
it was obstinately contested. The small enclosures 
and cottage gardens in the village, of which they had 
a full and commanding view, and which shortly be- 
fore lay, with their lines of sycamore and ash-trees, 
so still and quiet in the mild light of a May sun, 
were now each converted into a line of fire, canopied 
by smoke ; and the sustained and constant report of 
the musketry and cannon, mingled with the shouts of 
the meeting combatants, showed that as yet neither 
party had given ground. 

“ Many a soul finds its final departure to heaven 
or hell, in these awful thunders,” said the Abbot; 
“ let those that believe in the Holy Church, join me 
in orisons for victory in this dreadful combat.” 

“ Not here — not here,” said the unfortunate 
Queen ; “ pray not here, father, or pray in silence — 
my mind is too much torn between the past and the 
present, to dare to approach the heavenly throne — 
Or, if ye will pray, be it for one whose fondest af- 
fections have been her greatest crimes, and who has 


THE ABBOT. 297 

ceased to be a queen, only because she was a de- 
ceived and a tender-hearted woman.” 

“ Were it not well,’* said Eoland, “ that I rode 
somewhat nearer the hosts, and saw the fate of the 
day ? ” 

“ Do so, in the name of God,” said the Abbot ; “ for 
if our friends are scattered, our flight must be hasty 
— but beware thou approach not too nigh the con- 
flict ; there is more than thine own life depends on 
thy safe return.” 

“ 0, go not too nigh,” said Catherine ; " but fail 
not to see how the Seytons fight, and how they bear 
themselves.” 

“Fear nothing, I will be on my guard,” said Eoland 
Avenel ; and without waiting further answer, rode 
towards the scene of conflict, keeping, as he rode, 
the higher and unenclosed ground, and ever looking 
cautiously around him, for fear of involving himself 
in some hostile party. As he approached, the shots 
rung sharp and more sharply on his ear, the shouts 
came wilder and wilder, and he felt that thick beat- 
ing of the heart, that mixture of natural apprehen- 
sion, intense curiosity, and anxiety for the^ dubious 
event, which even the bravest experience when they 
approach alone to a scene of interest and of danger. 

At length he drew so close, that from a bank, 
screened by bushes and underwood, he could dis- 
tinctly see where the struggle was most keenly main- 
tained. This was in a hollow way, leading to the 
village, up which the Queen’s vanguard had marched, 
with more hasty courage than well-advised conduct, 
for the purpose of possessing themselves of that post 
of advantage. They found their scheme anticipated, 
and the hedges and enclosures already occupied by 
the enemy, led by the celebrated Kirkcaldy of 


THE ABBOT. 


298 

Grange, and the Earl of Morton ; and not small was 
the loss which they sustained while struggling for- 
ward to come to close with the men-at-arms on the 
other side. But, as the Queen’s followers were chiefly 
noblemen and barons, with their kinsmen and fol- 
lowers, they had pressed onward, contemning ob- 
stacles and danger, and had, when Koland arrived 
on the ground, met hand to hand at the gorge of the 
pass with the Kegent’s vanguard, and endeavoured to 
bear them out of the village at the spear-point; while 
their foes, equally determined to keep the advantage 
which they had attained, struggled with the like ob- 
stinacy to drive back the assailants. 

Both parties were on foot, and armed in proof ; so 
that, when the long lances of the front ranks were 
fixed in each other’s shields, corselets, and breast- 
plates, the struggle resembled that of two bulls, 
who, fixing their frontlets hard against each other, 
remain in that posture for hours, until the superior 
strength or obstinacy of the one compels the other to 
take to flight, or bears him down to the earth. Thus 
locked together in the deadly struggle, which swayed 
slowly to and fro, as one or other party gained the 
advantage, those who fell were trampled on alike by 
friends and foes; those whose weapons were broken 
retired from the front rank, and had their place sup- 
plied by others ; while the rearward ranks, unable 
otherwise to take share in the combat, fired their 
pistols, and hurled their daggers, and the points 
and truncheons of the broken weapons like javelins 
against the enemy. 

“ God and the Queen ! ” resounded from the one 
party ; " God and the King ! ” thundered from the 
other : while, in the name of their sovereign, fellow- 
subjects on both sides shed each other’s blood, and, 


THE ABBOT. 


299 


in the name of their Creator, defaced his image. 
Amid the tumult was often heard the voices of the 
captains shouting their commands; of leaders and 
chiefs, crying their gathering words ; of groans and 
shrieks from the falling and the dying. 

The strife had lasted nearly an hour. The 
strength of both parties seemed exhausted; but 
their rage was unabated, and their obstinacy unsub- 
dued, when Eoland, who turned eye and ear to all 
around him, saw a column of infantry, headed by a 
few horsemen, wheel round the base of the bank 
where he had stationed himself, and, levelling their 
long lances, attack the flank of the Queen’s vanguard, 
closely engaged as they were in conflict on their front. 
The very first glance showed him that the leader who 
directed this movement was the Knight of Avenel, 
his ancient master; and the next convinced him, 
that its effect would be decisive. The result of the 
attack of fresh and unbroken forces upon the flank 
of those already wearied with a long and obstinate 
struggle, was, indeed, instantaneous. 

The column of the assailants, which had hitherto 
shown one dark, dense, and united line of helmets, 
surmounted with plumage, was at once broken and 
hurled in confusion down the hill, which they had 
so long endeavoured to gain. In vain were the 
leaders heard calling upon their followers to stand 
to the combat, and seen personally resisting when 
all resistance was evidently vain. They were slain, 
or felled to the earth, or hurried backwards by the 
mingled tide of flight and pursuit. What were 
Eoland’s thoughts on beholding the rout, and feeling 
that all that remained for him was to turn bridle, 
and endeavour to ensure the safety of the Queen’s 
person ! Yet, keen as his grief and shame might be, 


300 


THE ABBOT. 


they were both forgotten, when, almost close beneath 
the bank which he occupied, he saw Henry Seyton 
forced away from his own party in the tumult, 
covered with dust and blood, and defending himself 
desperately against several of the enemy who had 
gathered around him, attracted by his gay armour. 
Eoland paused not a moment, but pushing his steed 
down the bank, leaped him amongst the hostile 
party, dealt three or four blows amongst them, 
which struck down two, and made the rest stand 
aloof ; then reaching Seyton his hand, he exhorted 
him to seize fast hold on his horse’s mane. 

“We live or die together this day,” said he; 
“keep but fast hold till we are out of the press, 
and then my horse is yours.” 

Seyton heard and exerted his remaining strength, 
and, by their joint efforts, Eoland brought him out 
of danger, and behind the spot from whence he had 
witnessed the disastrous conclusion of the fight. 
But no sooner were they under shelter of the trees, 
than Seyton let go his hold, and, in spite of Eoland’s 
efforts to support him, fell at length on the turf. 
“ Trouble yourself no more with me,” he said ; “ this 
is my first and my last battle — and I have already 
seen too much of it to wish to see the close. Hasten 
to save the Queen — and commend me to Catherine 
— she will never more be mistaken for me nor I for 
her — the last sword-stroke has made an eternal 
distinction.” 

“ Let me aid you to mount my horse,” said Eoland, 
eagerly, “ and you may yet be saved — I can find my 
own way on foot — turn but my horse’s head west- 
ward, and he will carry you fleet and easy as the 
wind.” 

“ I will never mount steed more,” said the youth ; 


THE ABBOT. 


301 


'‘farewell — I love thee better dying, than ever I 
thought to have done while in life — I would that 
old man’s blood were not on my hand ! — Sancte Bene- 
dicte, ora pro me ! — Stand not to look on a dying 
man, but haste to save the Queen I ” 

These words were spoken with the last effort of 
his voice, and scarce were they uttered ere the 
speaker was no more. They recalled Eoland to the 
sense of the duty which he had wellnigh forgotten, 
but they did not reach his ears only. 

“The Queen — where is the Queen?” said Sir 
Halbert Glendinning, who, followed by two or three 
horsemen, appeared at this instant. Eoland made 
no answer, but turning his horse, and confiding in 
his speed, gave him at once rein and spur, and rode 
over height and hollow towards the Castle of Crook- 
stone. More heavily armed, and mounted upon a 
horse of less speed, Sir Halbert Glendinning followed 
with couched lance, calling out as he rode, “Sir, 
with the holly-branch, halt, and show your right to 
bear that badge — fly not thus cowardly, nor dis- 
lionour the cognizance thou deservest not to wear ! 
— Halt, sir coward, or, by Heaven, I will strike 
thee with my lance on the back, and slay thee like 
a dastard — I am the Knight of Avenel — I am Sir 
Halbert Glendinning.” 

But Eoland, who had no purpose of encountering 
his old master, and who, besides, knew the Queen’s 
safety depended on his making the best speed he 
could, answered not a word to the defiances and re- 
proaches which Sir Halbert continued to throw out 
against him ; but making the best use of his spurs^ 
rode yet harder than before, and had gained about 
a hundred yards upon his pursuer, when coming near 
to the yew-tree where he had left the Queen, he saw 


302 


THE ABBOT. 


them already getting to horse, and cried out as loud 
as he could, “ Foes ! foes ! — Hide for it, fair ladies — 
Brave gentlemen, do your devoir to protect them ! ” 
So saying, he wheeled his horse, and avoiding the 
shock of Sir Halbert Glendinning, charged one of 
that knight's followers, who was nearly on a line 
with him, so rudely with his lance, that he overthrew 
horse and man. He then drew his sword, and at- 
tacked the second, while the black man-at-arms, 
throwing himself in the way of Glendinning, they 
rushed on each other so fiercely, that both horses 
were overthrown, and the riders lay rolling on the 
plain. Neither was able to arise, for the black horse- 
man was pierced through with Glendinning’s lance, 
and the Knight of Avenel, oppressed with the weight 
of his own horse, and sorely bruised besides, seemed 
in little better plight than he whom he had mortally 
wounded. 

“ Yield thee. Sir Knight of Avenel, rescue or no 
rescue,” said Eoland, who had put a second antag- 
onist out of condition to combat, and hastened to 
prevent Glendinning from renewing the conflict. 

I may not choose but yield,” said Sir Halbert, 
“ since I can no longer fight : but it shames me to 
speak such a word to a coward like thee ! ” 

“ Call me not coward,” said Eoland, lifting his 
visor, and helping his prisoner to rise, “ since but 
for old kindness at thy hand, and yet more at thy 
lady’s, I had met thee as a brave man should.” 

“ The favourite page of my wife ! ” said Sir Hal- 
bert, astonished : ** Ah !' wretched boy, I have heard 
of thy treason at Lochleven.” 

“ Eeproach him not, my bpther,” said the Abbot, 
“ he was but an agent in the hands of Heaven.” 

" To horse, to horse ! ” said Catherine Seyton ; 


THE ABBOT. 


303 


“ mount and be gone, or we are all lost. I see our 
gallant army flying for many a league — To horse, 
my Lord Abbot — To horse, Eoland — My gracious 
Liege, to horse ! Ere this, we should have ridden a 
mile.” 

“ Look on these features,” said Mary, pointing to 
the dying knight, who had been unhelmed by some 
•compassionate hand ; “ look there, and tell me if she 
who ruins all who love her, ought to fly a foot far- 
ther to save her wretched life ! ” 

The reader must have long anticipated the dis- 
covery which the Queen's feelings had made before 
her eyes confirmed it. It was the features of the 
unhappy George Douglas, on which death was 
stamping his mark. 

“ Look — look at him well,” said the Queen, “ thus 
has it been with all that loved Mary Stewart ! — 
The royalty of Francis, the wit of Chastelar, the 
power and gallantry of the gay Gordon, the melody 
of Eizzio, the portly form and youthful grace of 
Darnley, the bold address and courtly manners of 
Both well — and now the deep-devoted passion of the 
noble Douglas — nought could save them — they 
looked on the wretched Mary, and to have loved 
her was crime enough to deserve early death ! No 
sooner had the victim formed a kind thought of me, 
than the poisoned cup, the axe and block, the dagger, 
the mine, were ready to punish them for casting 
away affection on such a wretch as I am ! — Impor- 
tune me not — I will fly no farther — I can die but 
once, and I will die here.” 

While she spoke, .her tears fell fast on the face 
of the dying man, who continued to fix his eyes on 
her with an eagerness of passion, which death itself 
could hardly subdue. — “ Mourn not for me,” he 


304 


THE ABBOT. 


said faintly, " but care for your own safety — I die 
in mine armour as a Douglas should, and I die pitied 
by Mary Stewart ! ” 

He expired "with these words, and without with- 
drawing his eyes from her face ; and the Queen, 
whose heart was of that soft and gentle mould, which, 
in domestic life, and with a more suitable partner 
than Darnley, might have made her happy, remained 
weeping by the dead man, until recalled to herself 
by the Abbot, who found it necessary to use a style 
of unusual remonstrance. “We also, madam,” he 
said, “we, your Grace’s devoted followers, have 
friends and relatives to weep for. I leave a brother 
in imminent jeopardy — the husband of the Lady 
Fleming — the father and brother of the Lady 
Catherine, are all in yonder bloody field, slain, it is 
to be. feared, or prisoners. We forget the fate of 
our own nearest and dearest, to wait on our Queen, 
and she is too much occupied with her own sorrows 
to give one thought to ours.” 

“I deserve not your reproach, father,” said the 
Queen, checking her tears ; “ but I am docile to it 
— - where must we go ? — what must we do ? ” 

“We must fly, and that instantly,” said the Ab- 
bot ; “ whither is not so easily answered, but we 
may dispute it upon the road — Lift her to her 
saddle, and set forward.” ^ 

They set off accordingly — Koland lingered a mo- 
ment, to command the attendants of the Knight of 
Avenel to convey their master to the Castle of Crook- 
stone, and to say that he demanded from him no 
other condition of liberty, than his word, that he 
and his followers would keep secret the direction 
in which the Queen fled. As he turned his rein to 
' Note VI. — Battle of Langside. 


THE ABBOT. 


305 


depart, the honest countenance of Adam Woodcock 
stared upon him with an expression of surprise, 
which, at another time, would have excited his 
hearty mirth. He had been one of the followers who 
had experienced the weight of Eoland’s arm, and 
they now knew each other, Eoland having put up 
his visor, and the good yeoman having thrown away 
his barret-cap, with the iron bars in front, that he 
might the more readily assist his master. Into this 
harret-cap, as it lay on the ground, Eoland forgot 
not to drop a few gold pieces, (fruits of the Queen’s 
liberality,) and with a signal of kind recollection 
and enduring friendship, he departed at full gallop 
to overtake the Queen, the dust raised by her train 
being already far down the hill. 

“ It is not fairy-money,” said honest Adam, weigh- 
ing and handling the gold — And it was Master 
Eoland himself, that is a certain thing — the same 
open hand, and by Our Lady ! ” — (shrugging his 
shoulders) — “ the same ready fist ! — My Lady 
will hear of this gladly, for she mourns for him as 
if he were her son. And to see how gay he is ! 
But these light lads are as sure to be uppermost as 
the froth to be on the top of the quart-pot — Your 
man of solid parts remains ever a falconer.” So say- 
ing, he went to aid his comrades, who had now come 
up in greater numbers, to carry his master into the 
Castle of Crookstone. 


VOL. II. — 20 


CHAPTEK XVIII. 


My native land, good night ! 

Byron. 


Ma.ny a bitter tear was shed during the hasty flight 
of Queen Mary, over fallen hopes, future prospects, 
arid slaughtered friends. The deaths of the brave 
Douglas, and of the fiery but gallant young Seyton, 
seemed to affect the Queen as much as the fall from 
the throne, on which she had so nearly been again 
seated. Catherine Seyton devoured in secret her 
own grief, anxious to support the broken spirits of 
her mistress ; and the Abbot, bending his troubled 
thoughts upon futurity, endeavoured in vain to form 
some plan which had a shadow of hope. The spirit 
of young Poland, for he also mingled in the hasty 
debates held by the companions of the Queen’s 
flight, continued unchecked and unbroken. 

“ Your Majesty,” he said, “ has lost a battle — 
Your ancestor, Bruce, lost seven successively, (i) ere 
he sat triumphant on the Scottish throne, and pro- 
claimed with the voice of a victor, in the field of 
Bannockburn, the independence of his country. Are 
not these heaths, which we may traverse at will, 
better than the locked, guarded, and lake-moated 
Castle of Lochleven? — We are free — in that one 
word there is comfort for all our losses.” 

He struck a bold note, but the heart of Mary 
made no response. 


THE ABBOT. 


307 


“ Better,” she said, “ I had still been in Lochleven, 
than seen the slaughter made by rebels among the 
subjects who offered themselves to death for my 
sake. Speak not to me of further efforts — they 
would only cost the lives of you, the friends who 
recommend them ! 1 would not again undergo what 
I felt, when I saw from yonder mount the swords 
of the fell horsemen of Morton raging among the 
faithful Seytons and Hamiltons, for their loyalty to 
their Queen — I would not again feel what I felt 
when Douglas’s life-blood stained my mantle for his 
love to Mary Stewart — not to be empress of all 
that Britain’s seas enclose. Find for me some place 
where I can hide my unhappy head, which brings 
destruction on all who love it — it is the last favour 
that Mary asks of her faithful followers.” 

In this dejected mood, but still pursuing her flight 
with unabated rapidity, the unfortunate Mary, after 
having been joined by Lord Herries and a few fol- 
lowers, at length halted, for the first time, at the 
Abbey of Dundrennan, nearly sixty miles distant 
from the field of battle. In this remote corner of 
Galloway, the Eeformation not having yet been 
strictly enforced against the monks, a few still lin- 
gered in their cells unmolested ; and the Prior, with 
tears and reverence, received the fugitive Queen at 
the gate of his convent. 

“I bring you ruin, my good father,” said the 
Queen, as she was lifted from her palfrey. 

“ It is welcome,” said the Prior, “ if it comes in 
the train of duty.” 

Placed on the ground, and supported by her ladies, 
the Queen looked for an instant at her palfrey, which, 
jaded and drooping its head, seemed as if it mourned 
the distresses of its mistress. 


3o8 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Good Eoland,” said the Queen, whispering, “ let 
Eosabelle be cared for — ask thy heart, and it will 
tell thee why I make this trifling request even in 
this awful hour.” 

She was conducted to her apartment, and in the 
hurried consultation of her attendants, the fatal 
resolution of the retreat to England was finally 
adopted. In the morning it received her approba- 
tion, and a messenger was dispatched to the English 
warden, to pray him for safe conduct and hospitality, 
on the part of the Queen of Scotland. On the next 
day, the Abbot Ambrose walked in the garden of 
the Abbey with Eoland, to whom he expressed his 
disapprobation of the course pursued. “ It is mad- 
ness and ruin,” he said ; “ better commit herself to 
the savage Highlanders or wild Border men, than to 
the faith of Elizabeth. A woman to a rival woman 
— a presumptive successor to the keeping of a 
jealous and childless Queen ! — Eoland, Herries 
is true and loyal, but his counsel has ruined his 
mistress.” 

“Ay, ruin follows us everywhere,” said an old 
man, with a spade in his hand, and dressed like a 
lay-brother, of whose presence, in the vehemence of 
his exclamation, the Abbot had not been aware — 
“ Gaze not on me with such wonder ! — I am he who 
was the Abbot Boniface at Kennaquhair, who was 
the gardener Blinkhoolie at Lochleven, hunted round 
to the place in which I served my noviciate, and 
now ye are come to rouse me up again ! — A weary 
life I have had, for one to whom peace was ever the 
dearest blessing ! ” 

“We will soon rid you of our company, good 
father,” said the Abbot ; “ and the Queen will, I fear, 
trouble your retreat no more.” 


THE ABBOT. 


309 

“ Kay, you said as much before,” said the queru- 
lous old man, “ and yet I was put forth from Kin- 
ross, and pillaged by troopers on the road. — They 
took from me the certificate that you wot of — that 
of the Baron — ay, he was a moss-trooper like them- 
selves — You asked me of it, and I could never find 
it, but they found it — it showed the marriage of — 
of — my memory fails me — Kow see how men differ! 
Father Nicholas would have told you an hundred 
tales of the Abbot Ingelram, on whose soul God 
have mercy ! — He was, I warrant you, fourscore 
and six, and I am not more than — let me see ” 

“ Was not Avenel the name you seek, my good 
Father ? ” said Boland, impatiently, yet moderating 
his tone for fear. of alarming or offending the infirm 
old man. 

“Ay, right — Avenel, Julian Avenel — You are 
perfect in the name — I kept all the special confes- 
sions, judging it held with my vow to do so — I could 
not find it when my successor, Ambrosius, spoke 
on’t — but the troopers found it, and the Knight 
who commanded the party struck his breast, till his 
hauberk clattered like an empty watering-can.” 

“ Saint Mary ! ” said the Abbot, “ in whom could 
such a paper excite such interest ? What was the 
appearance of the Knight, his arms, his colours ? 

“ Ye distract me with your questions — I dared 
hardly look at him — they charged me with bearing 
letters for the Queen, and searched my mail This 
was all along of your doings at Lochleven. 

“ I trust in God,” said the Abbot to Boland, who 
stood beside him, shivering and trembling with im- 
patience, “the paper has fallen into the hands of 
my brother— I heard he had been with his fol- 
lowers on the scout betwixt Stirling and Glasgow — 


310 


THE ABBOT. 


Bore not the Knight a holly-bough in his helmet ? 
— • Canst thou not remember ? ” 

“0, remember — remember,” said the old man, 
pettishly ; “ count as many years as I do, if your 
plots will let you, and see what, and how much, you 
remember. — Why, I scarce remember the pearmains 
which I graffed here with my own hands some fifty 
years since.” 

At this moment a bugle sounded loudly from the 
beach. 

“ It is the death-blast to Queen Mary’s royalty ! ” 
said Ambrosius ; “ the English warden’s answer has 
been received, favourable doubtless, for when was 
the door of the trap closed against the prey which 
it was set for ? — Droop not, Eoland — this matter 
shall be sifted to the bottom — but we must not 
now leave, the Queen — Follow me — let us do our 
duty, and trust the issue with God — Farewell, good 
Father — I will visit thee again soon.” 

He was about to leave the garden, followed by 
Eoland, with half-reluctant steps. The Ex- Abbot 
resumed his spade. 

“ I could be sorry for these men,” he said, ** ay, 
and for that poor Queen, but what avail earthly 
sorrows to a man of fourscore ? — and it is a rare 
dropping morning for the early colewort.” 

“ He is stricken with age,” said Ambrosius, as he 
dragged Eoland down to the sea-beach ; “ we must 
let him take his time to collect himself — nothing 
now can be thought on but the fate of the Queen.” 

They soon arrived where she stood, surrounded 
by her little train, and by her side the Sheriff of 
Cumberland, a gentleman of the house of Lowther, 
richly dressed and accompanied by soldiers. The 
aspect of the Queen exhibited a singular mixture 


THE ABBOT. . 


3ti 

of alacrity and reluctance to depart. Her language 
and gestures spoke hope and consolation to her at- 
tendants, and she seemed desirous to persuade even 
herself that the step she adopted was secure, and 
that the assurance she had received of kind recep- 
tion was altogether satisfactory ; but her quivering 
lip, and unsettled eye, betrayed at once her anguish 
at departing from Scotland, and her fears of confid- 
ing herself to the doubtful faith of England. 

“ Welcome, my Lord Abbot,” she said, speaking to 
Ambrosius, “ and you, Koland Avenel, we have joyful 
news for you — our loving sister’s officer proffers us, 
in her name, a safe asylum from the rebels who have 
driven us from our own — only it grieves me we 
must here part from you for a short space.” 

“ Part from us, madam ! ” said the Abbot. “ Is 
your welcome in England, then, to commence with 
the abridgement of your train, and dismissal of your 
counsellors ? ” 

“ Take it not thus, good Father,” said Mary ; 
“ the Warden and the Sheriff, faithful servants of 
our Koyal Sister, deem it necessary to obey her 
instructions in the present case, even to the letter, 
and can only take upon them to admit me with my 
female attendants. An express will instantly be 
dispatched from London, assigning me a place of 
residence ; and I will speedily send to all of you 
whenever my Court shall be formed.” 

“Your Court formed in England! and while 
Elizabeth lives and reigns ? ” said the Abbot — 
“ that will be when we shall see two suns in one 
heaven ! ” 

“ Do not think so,” replied the Queen ; “ we are 
well assured of our sister’s good faith. Elizabeth 
loves fame — and not all that she has won by her 


312 


THE ABBOT. 


power and her wisdom will equal that which she 
will acquire by extending her hospitality to a dis- 
tressed sister ! — not all. that she may hereafter do 
of good, wise, and great, would blot out the reproach 
of abusing our confidence. — Farewell, my page — 
now my knight — farewell for a brief season. I will 
dry the tears of Catherine, or I will weep with her 
till neither of us can weep longer.” She held out 
her hand to Roland, who, flinging himself on his 
knees, kissed it with much emotion. He was about 
to render the same homage to Catherine, when the 
Queen, assuming an air of sprightliness, said, “ Her 
lips, thou foolish boy ! and, Catherine, coy it not — 
these English gentlemen should see, that, even in our 
cold clime. Beauty knows how to reward Bravery 
and Fidelity ! ” 

“ We are not now to learn the force of Scottish 
beauty, or the mettle of Scottish valour,” said the 
Sheriff of Cumberland, courteously — “I would it 
were in my power to bid these attendants upon her 
who is herself the mistress of Scottish beauty, as 
welcome to England as my poor cares would make 
them. But our Queen’s orders are positive in case 
of such an emergence, and they must not be disputed 
by her subject. — May I remind your Majesty that 
the tide ebbs fast ? ” 

The Sheriff took the Queen’s hand, and she had 
already placed her foot on the gangway, by which 
she was to enter the skiff, when the Abbot, starting 
from a trance of grief and astonishment at the 
words of the Sheriff, rushed into the water, and 
seized upon her mantle. 

“ She foresaw it ! — she foresaw it ! ” — he ex- 
claimed — ** she foresaw your flight into her realm ; 
and, foreseeing it, gave orders you should be thus 


THE ABBOT. 


313 


received. Blinded, deceived, doomed Princess ! your 
fate is sealed when you quit this strand. — Queen of 
Scotland, thou shalt not leave thine heritage ! ” he 
continued, holding a still firmer grasp upon her 
mantle ; “ true men shall turn rebels to thy will, that 
they may save thee from captivity or death. Fear 
not the bills and bows whom that gay man has at 
his beck — we will withstand him by force. 0, for 
the arm of my warlike brother ! — Koland Avenel, 
draw thy sword ! ” 

The Queen stood irresolute and frightened; one 
foot upon the plank, the other on the sand of her 
native shore, which she was quitting for ever. 

“ What needs this violence. Sir Priest ? ” said the 
Sheriff of Cumberland ; “ I came hither at your 
Queen’s command, to do her service ; and I will de- 
part at her least order, if she rejects such aid as I can 
offer. No marvel is it if our Queen’s wisdom foresaw 
that such chance as this might happen amidst the 
turmoils of your unsettled State ; and, while willing 
to afford fair hospitality to her Koyal Sister, deemed 
it wise to prohibit the entrance of a broken army of 
her followers into the English frontier.” 

" You hear,” said Queen Mary, gently unloosing 
her robe from the Abbot’s grasp, “ that we exercise 
full liberty of choice in leaving this shore; and, 
questionless, the choice will remain free to us in 
going to France, or returning to our own dominions, 
as we shall determine — Besides, it is too late — 
Your blessing. Father, and God speed thee ! ” 

“ May He have mercy on thee. Princess, and speed 
thee also ! ” said the Abbot, retreating. “ But my 
soul tells me I look on thee for the last time ! ” 

The sails were hoisted, the oars were plied, the 
vessel went freshly on her way through the Frith, 


314 


THE ABBOT. 


which divides the shores of Cumberland from those 
of Galloway ; but not till the vessel diminished to 
the size of a child’s frigate, did the doubtful, and 
dejected, and dismissed followers of the Queen cease 
to linger on the sands ; and long, long could they 
discern the kerchief of Mary, as she waved the oft- 
repeated signal o'f adieu to her faithful adherents, 
and to the shores of Scotland. 

If good tidings of a private nature could have 
consoled Eoland for parting with his mistress, and 
for the distresses of his sovereign, he received such 
comfort some days subsequent to the Queen’s leav- 
ing Dundrennan. A breathless post — no other than 
Adam Woodcock — brought dispatches from Sir Hal- 
bert Glendinning to the Abbot, whom he found with 
Eoland, still residing at Dundrennan, and in vain 
torturing Boniface with fresh interrogations. The 
packet bore an earnest invitation to his brother to 
make Averiel Castle for a time his residence. “ The 
clemency of the Eegent,” said the writer, “ has ex- 
tended pardon both to Eoland and to you, upon con- 
dition of your remaining a time under my wardship. 
And I have that to communicate respecting the 
parentage of Eoland, which not only you will will- 
ingly listen to, but which will be also found to af- 
ford me, as the husband of his nearest relative, some 
interest in the future course of his life.” 

The Abbot read this letter, and paused, as if con- 
sidering what were best for him to do. Meanwhile, 
Woodcock took Eoland aside, and addressed him as 
follows : “ Now, look. Master Eoland, that you do 
not let any papistrie nonsense lure either the priest 
or you from the right quarry. See you, you ever 
bore yourself as a bit of a gentleman. Bead that, 


THE ABBOT. 


315 

and thank God that threw old Abbot Boniface in 
our way, as two of the Sey ton’s men were conveying 
him towards Dundrennan here. We searched him 
for intelligence concerning that fair exploit of yours 
at Lochleven, that has cost many a man his life, and 
me a set of sore bones — and we found what is better 
for your purpose than ours.” 

The paper which he gave, was, indeed, ap attes- 
tation by Father Philip, subscribing himself un- 
worthy Sacristan, and brother of the House of Saint 
Mary’s, stating, “ that under a vow of secrecy he had 
united, in the holy sacrament of marriage, Julian 
Avenel and Catherine Grseme ; but that Julian hav- 
ing repented of his union, he. Father Philip, had 
been sinfully prevailed on by him to conceal and 
disguise the same, according to a complot devised 
betwixt him and the said Julian Avenel, whereby 
the poor damsel was induced to believe that the 
ceremony had been performed by one not in holy 
orders, and having no authority to that effect. 
Which sinful concealment the undersigned con- 
ceived to be the cause why he was abandoned to 
the misguiding of a water fiend, whereby he had 
been under a spell, which obliged him to answer 
every question, even touching the most solemn mat- 
ters, with idle snatches of old songs, besides being 
sorely afflicted with rheumatic pains ever after. 
Wherefore he had deposited this testificate and con- 
fession, with the day and date of the said marriage, 
with his lawful superior, Boniface, Abbot of Saint 
Mary’s, suh sigillo confessionis.** 

It appeared by a letter from Julian, folded care- 
fully up with the certificate, that the Abbot Boni- 
face had, in effect, bestirred himself in the affair, 
and obtained from the Baron a promise to avow his 




THE ABBOT. 


marriage ; but the death of both Julian and his in- 
jured bride, together with the Abbot’s resignation, 
his ignorance of the fate of their unhappy offspring, 
and, above all, the good father’s listless and inactive 
disposition, had suffered the matter to become totally 
forgotten, until it was recalled by some accidental 
conversation with the Abbot Ambrosius concerning 
the fortunes of the Avenel family. At the request 
of his successor, the quondam Abbot made search 
for it ; but, as he would receive no assistance in 
looking among the few records of spiritual ex- 
periences and important confessions, which he had 
conscientiously treasured, it might have remained 
for ever hidden amongst them, but for the more 
active researches of Sir Halbert Glendinning. 

“ So that you are like to be heir of Avenel at last, 
Master Koland, after my lord and lady have gone to 
their place,” said Adam; “and as I have but one 
boon to ask, I trust you will not nick me with nay.” 

“ Not if it be in my power to say yes, my trusty 
friend.” 

“ Why then, I must needs, if I live to see that 
day, keep on feeding the eyasses with unwashed 
flesh,” said Woodcock sturdily, yet as if doubting 
the reception that his request might meet with. 

“ Thou shalt feed them with what you list for 
me,” said Eoland, laughing ; “ I am not many months 
older than when I left the Castle, but I trust I have 
gathered wit enough to cross no man of skill in his 
own vocation.” 

“ Then I would not change places with the King’s 
falconer,” said Adam Woodcock, “nor with the 
Queen’s neither — but they say she will be mewed 
up and never need one. — I see it grieves you to 
think of it, and I could grieve for company ; but 


THE ABBOT. 


317 


what help for it — Fortune will fly her own flight, 
let a man hollo himself hoarse.” 

The Abbot and Eoland journeyed to Avenel, where 
the former was tenderly received by his brother, 
while the lady wept for joy to find that in her fa- 
vourite orphan she had protected the sole surviving 
branch of her own family. Sir Halbert Glendinning 
and his household were not a little surprised at the 
change which a brief acquaintance with the world 
had produced in their former inmate, and rejoiced 
to find, in the pettish, spoiled, and presuming page, 
a modest and unassuming young man, too much 
acquainted with his own expectations and character, 
to be hot or petulant in demanding the considera- 
tion which was readily and voluntarily yielded to him. 
The old Major Donio Wingate was the first to sing his 
praises, to which Mrs. Lilias bore a loud echo, always 
hoping that God would teach him the true gospel. 

To the true gospel the heart of Eoland had secretly 
long inclined, and the departure of the good Abbot 
for France, with the purpose of entering into some 
house of his order in that kingdom, removed his 
chief objection to renouncing the Catholic faith. 
Another might have existed in the duty which he 
owed to Magdalen Graeme, both by birth and from 
gratitude. But he learned, ere he had been long a 
resident in Avenel, that his grandmother had died 
at Cologne, in the performance of a penance too 
severe^for her age, which she had taken upon herself 
in behalf of the Queen and Church of Scotland, so 
soon as she heard of the defeat at Langside. The 
zeal of the Abbot Ambrosius was' more regulated ; . 

but he retired into the Scottish convent of , 

and so lived there, that the fraternity were inclined 
to claim for him the honours of canonization. But 


THE ABBOT. 


318 

he guessed their purpose, and prayed them, on his 
death-bed, to do no honours to the body of one as 
sinful as themselves ; but to send his body and his 
heart to be buried in Avenel burial-aisle, in the 
monastery of Saint Mary’s, that the last Abbot of 
that celebrated house of devotion might sleep among 
its ruins. ^ 

Long before that period arrived, Eoland Avenel 
was wedded to Catherine Seyton, who, after two 
years’ residence with her unhappy mistress, was 
dismissed, upon her being subjected to closer re- 
straint than had been at first exercised. She 
returned to her father’s house, and as Eoland was 
acknowledged for the successor and lawful heir of 
the ancient house of Avenel, greatly increased as 
the estate was by the providence of Sir Halbert 
Glendinning, there occurred no objections to the 
match on the part of her family. Her mother was 
recently dead when she first entered the convent ; 
and her father, in the unsettled times which fol- 
lowed Queen Mary’s flight to England, was not 
averse to an alliance with a youth, who, himself 
loyal to Queen Mary, still held some influence, 
through means of Sir Halbert Glendinning, with 
the party in power. 

Eoland and Catherine, therefore, were united, 
spite of their differing faiths ; and the White Lady, 
whose apparition had been infrequent when the 
house of Avenel seemed verging to extinction, was 
seen to sport by her haunted well, with a zone of 
gold aropnd her bosom as broad as the baldrick of 
an Earl. 

^ Note VII. — Burial of the Abbot’s Heart iu the Avenel Aisle- 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


Note I., p. 41. — The Resignation of Queen Mary, 

The details of this remarkable event are, as given in Chap- 
ter II., imaginary; but the outline of the events is historical 
Sir Robert Lindesay, brother to the author of the Memoirs, 
was at first intrusted with the delicate commission of persuad- 
ing the imprisoned Queen to resign her crown. As he flatly 
revised to interfere, they determined to send the Lord 
Lindesay, one of the rudest and most violent of their own fac- 
tion, with instructions, first to use fair persuasions, and if these 
did not succeed, to enter into harder terms. Knox associates 
Lord Ruthven with Lindesay in this alarming commission. 
He was the son of that Lord Ruthven who was prime agent 
in the murder of Rizzio; and little mercy was to be expected 
from his conjunction with Lindesay. 

The employment of such rude tools argued a resolution on 
the part of those who had the Queen's person in their power, 
to proceed to the utmost extremities, should they find Mary 
obstinate. To avoid this pressing danger. Sir Robert Melville 
was dispatched by them to Lochleven, carrying with him, con- 
cealed in the scabbard of his sword, letters to the Queen from 
the Earl of Athole, Maitland of Lethington, and even from 
Throgmorton, the English ambassador, who was then favour- 
able to the unfortunate Mary, conjuring her to yield to the 
necessity of the times, and to subscribe such deeds as Lindesay 
should iay before her, without being startled by their tenor ; 
and assuring her that her doing so, in the state of captivity 
under which she was placed, would neither, in law, honour, 
or conscience, be binding upon her when she should obtain 
her liberty. Submitting, by the advice of one part of her sub- 
jects, to the menace of the others, and learning that Lindesay 
was arrived in a boasting, that is, threatening humour, the 
Queen, “ with some reluctancy, and with tears,” saith Knox, 


320 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 

subscribed one deed resigning her crown to her infant son, and 
another establishing the Earl of Murray regent. It seems 
agreed by historians, that Lindesay behaved with great brutality 
on the occasion. The deeds were signed 24th July, 1567. 


Note IL, p. 216. — Supposed Conspiracy against the 
Life of Mary. 

A romancer, to use a Scottish phrase, wants but a hair to 
make a tether of. The whole detail of the steward’s sup- 
posed conspiracy against the life of Mary, is grounded upon an 
expression in one of her letters, which affirms, that Jasper 
Dryfesdale, one of the Laird of Lochleven’s servants, had 
threatened to murder William Douglas (for his share in the 
Queen’s escape,) and averred that he would plant a dagger in 
Mary’s own heart. — Chalmers’s Life of Queen Mary^ vol. i. 
p. 278. 


Note III., p. 228. — Muffled Man. 

Generally a disguised man ; originally one who wears the 
cloak or mantle muffled round the lower part of the face to 
conceal his countenance. I have on an ancient piece of iron 
the representation of a robber thus accoutred, endeavouring to 
make his way into a house, and opposed by a mastiff, to whom 
he in vain offers food. The motto is Spernit dona Jides. It is 
part of a fire-grate said to have belonged to Archbishop Sharpe. 


Note IV., p. 258. — Demeanour of Queen Mary. 

In the dangerous expedition to Aberdeenshire, Randolph, 
the English ambassador, gives Cecil the following account of 
Queen Mary’s demeanour: — 

“ In all those garbulles, I assure your honour, I never saw 
the Queen merrier, never dismayed ; nor never thought I that 
stomache to be in her that I find. She repented nothing but, 
when the Lords and others, at Inverness, came in the morning 
from the watches, that she was not a man to know what life it 
was to lye all night in the fields, or to walk upon the causeway 
with a jack and a knapscap, a Glasgow buckler, and a broad- 
sword.” — Randolph to Cecil, September 18, 1562. 


AtJTHOR^S NOTES. 


3^1 


The writer of the above letter seems to have felt the same 
impression which Catherine Seyton, in the text, considered as 
proper to the Queen’s presence among her armed subjects. 

“ Though we neither thought nor looked for other than on 
that day to have fought or never — what desperate blows 
would not have been given, when every man should have 
fought in the sight of so noble a Queen, and so many fair 
ladies, our enemies to have taken them from us, and we to 
save our honours, not to be reft of them, your honour can 
easily judge ! ” — The same to the same, September 24, 1562. 


Note V., p. 262 . — Escape of Queen Mart from Lochleven. 

It is well known that the escape of Queen Mary from Loch- 
leven was effected by George Douglas, the youngest brother of 
Sir William Douglas, the lord of the castle ; but the minute 
circumstances of the event have been a good deal confused, 
owing to two agents having been concerned in it who bore the 
same name. It has been always supposed that George Doug- 
las was induced to abet Mary’s escape by the ambitious hope 
that, by such service, he might merit her hand. But his pur- 
pose was discovered by his brother Sir William, and he was 
expelled from the castle. He continued, notwithstanding, to 
hover in the neighbourhood, and maintain a correspondence 
with the royal prisoner and others in the fortress. 

If we befieve the English ambassador Drury, the Queen was 
grateful to George Douglas, and even proposed a marriage with 
him ; a scheme which could hardly be serious, since she was 
still the wife of Both well, but which, if suggested at all, might 
be with a purpose of gratifying the Regent Murray’s ambition, 
and propitiating his favour ; since he was, it must be remem- 
bered, the brother uterine of George Douglas, for whom such 
high honour was said to be designed. 

The proposal, if seriously made, was treated as inadmissible, 
and Mary again resumed her purpose of escape. Her failure 
in her first attempt has some picturesque particulars, which 
might have been advantageously introduced in fictitious narra- 
tive. Drury sends Cecil the following account of the matter: — 

“ But after, upon the 25th of the last, (April 1567,) she in- 
terprised an escape, and was the rather near effect, through her 
accustomed long lying in bed all the morning. The manner 


322 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


of it was thus : there cometh in to her the laundress early as 
other times before she was wanted, and the Queen according to 
such a secret practice putteth on her the hood of the laundress, 
and so with the I'ardel of clothes and the muffler upon her 
face, passeth out and entreth the boat to pass the Loch; which, 
after some space, one of them that rowed said merrily, ‘ Let us 
see what manner of dame this is,’ and therewith offered to pull 
down her muffler, which, to defend, she put up her hands, 
which they espied to be very fair and white; wherewith they 
entered into suspicion whom she was, beginning to wonder at 
her enterprise. Whereat she was little dismayed, but charged 
them, upon danger of their lives, to row her over to the shore, 
which they nothing regarded, but eftsoons rowed her back 
again, promising her it should be secreted, and especially 
from the lord of the house, under whose guard she lyeth. It 
seemed she knew her refuge, and where to have found it if she 
had once landed ; for there did, and yet do linger, at a little 
Tillage called Kinross, hard at the Loch side, the same George 
Douglas, one Sempil, and one Beton, the which two were some- 
time her trusty servants, and, as yet appeareth, they mind her 
no less affection.” — Bishop Keith’s History of the Affairs of 
Church and State in Scotland, p. 490. f 

Notwithstanding this disappointment, little spoke of by his- 
torians, Mary renewed her attempts to escape. There was in 
the Castle of Lochleven a lad, named William Douglas, some 
relation probably of the baron, and about eighteen years old. 
This youth proved as accessible to Queen Mary’s prayers and 
promises, as was the brother of his patron, George Douglas, 
from whom this William must be carefully kept distinct. It 
was young William who played the part commonly assigned to 
his superior, George, stealing the keys of the castle from the 
table on which they lay, while his lord was at supper. He let 
the Queen and a waiting woman out of the apartment where 
they were secured, and out of the door itself, embarked with 
them in a small skiff, and rowed them to the shore. To pre- 
vent instant pursuit, he, for precaution’s sake, locked the iron 
grated dtior of the tower, and threw the keys into the lake. 
They found George Douglas and the Queen’s servant, Beton, 
waiting for them, and Lord Seyton and James Hamilton of 
Orbieston in attendance, at the head of a party of faithful fol- 
lowers, with whom they fled to Niddrie Castle, and from 
thence to Hamilton. 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


323 

In narrating this romantic story, both history and tradition 
confuse the two Douglasses together, and confer on George the 
successful execution of the escape from the castle, the merit of 
which belongs, in reality, to the boy called William, or, more 
frequently, the Little Douglas, either from his youth or his 
slight stature. The reader will observe, that in the romance, 
the part of the Little Douglas has been assigned to Roland 
Graeme. In another case, it would be tedious to point out in 
a work of amusement such minute points of historical fact; 
but the general interest taken in the fate of Queen Mary, ren- 
ders every thing of consequence which connects itself with her 
misfortunes. 

Note VI., p. 304. — Battle op Langside. 

I am informed in the most polite manner, by D. MacVean, 
Esq. of Glasgow, that I have been incorrect in my locality, in 
giving an account of the battle of Langside. Crookstone 
Castle, he observes, lies four miles west from the field, of battle, 
and rather in the rear of Murray’s army. The real place from 
which Mary saw the rout of her last army, was Cathcart 
Castle, which, being a mile and a half east from Langside, was 
situated in the rear of the Queen’s own army. I was led astray 
in the present case, by the authority of my deceased friend, 
James Grahame, the excellent and amiable author of the Sab- 
bath, in his drama on the subject of Queen Mary ; and by a 
traditionary report of Mary having seen the battle from the 
Castle of Crookstone, which seemed so much to increase the 
interest of the scene, that I have been unwilling to make, in 
this particular instance, the fiction give way to the fact, which 
last is undoubtedly in favour of Mr. MacVean’s system. 

It is singular how tradition, which is sometimes a sure guide 
to truth, is, ill other cases, prone to mislead us. In the cele- 
brated field of battle at Killiecrankie, the traveller is struck 
with one of those rugged pillars of rough stone, which indi- 
cate the scenes of ancient conflict. A friend of the author, 
well acquainted with the circumstances of the battle, was 
standing near this large stone, and looking on the scene 
around, when a Highland shepherd hurried down from the 
hill to offer his services as cicerone, and proceeded to inform 
him, that Dundee was slain at that stone, which was raised to 
his memory. “ Fie, Donald,” answered my friend, “ how can 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


344 

you tell such a story to a stranger ? I am sure you know well 
enough that Dundee waS killed at a considerable distance from 
this place, near the house of Fascally, and that this stone was 
here long before the battle, in 1688 .” — “Oich ! oich ! ” said 
Donald, no way abashed, “ and your honour’s in the right, and 
I see you ken a’ about it. And he wasna killed on the spot 
neither, but lived till the next morning ; but a’ the Saxon 
gentlemen like best to hear he was killed at the great stane.” 
It is on the same principle of pleasing my readers, that I retain 
Crookstone Castle instead of Cathcart. 

If, however, the author has taken a liberty in removing 
the actual field of battle somewhat to the eastward, he has 
been tolerably strict in adhering to the incidents of the en- 
gagement, as will appear from a comparison of events in the 
novel, with the following account from an old writer. 

“ The Regent was out on foot and all his company, except 
the Laird of Grange, Alexander Hume of Manderston, and 
some Borderers to the number of two hundred. The Laird of 
Grange had already viewed the ground, and with all imagi- 
nable diligence caused every horseman to take behind him a 
footman of the Regent’s, to guard behind them, and rode with 
speed to the head of the Langside-hill, and set down the foot- 
men with their culverings at the head of a straight lane, where 
there were some cottage houses and yards of great advantage. 
Which soldiers with their continual shot killed divers of the 
vaunt guard, led by the Hamilton s, who, courageously and 
fiercely ascending up the hill, were already out of breath, when 
the Regent’s vaunt guard joined with them. Where the 
worthy Lord Hume fought on foot with his pike in his hand 
very manfully, assisted by the Laird of Cessford, his brother- 
in-law, who helped him up again when he was strucken to the 
ground by many strokes upon his face, through the throwing 
pistols at him after they had been discharged. He was also 
wounded with staves, and had many strokes of spears through 
his legs ; for he and Grange, at the joining, cried to let their 
adversaries first lay down their spears, to bear up theirs; which 
spears were so thick fixed in the others’ jacks, that some of the 
pistols and great staves that were thrown by them which were 
behind, might be seen lying upon the spears. 

“ Upon the Queen’s side the Earl of Argyle commanded the 
battle, and the Lord of Arbroath the vaunt guard. But the 
Regent committed to the Laird of Grange the special care, as 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


325 


being an experimented captain, to oversee every danger, and to 
ride to every wing, to encourage and make help where greatest 
need was. He perceived, at the first joining, the right wing of 
the Regent’s vaunt guard put hack, and like .to fly, whereof 
the greatest part were commons of the barony of Renfrew ; 
whereupon he rode to them, and told them that their enemy 
was already turning their backs, requesting them to stay and 
debate till he should bring them fresh men forth of the battle. 
Whither at full speed he did ride alone, and told the Regent 
that the enemy were shaken and flying away behind the little 
village, and desired a few number of fresh men to go with him. 
Where he found enough willing, as the Lord Lindesay, the 
Laird of Lochleven, Sir James Balfour, and all the Regent’s 
servants, who followed him with diligence, and reinforced that 
wing which was beginning to fly; which fresh men with their 
loose weapons struck the enemies in their flank and faces, 
which forced them incontinent to give place and turn back 
after long fighting and pushing others to and fro with their 
spears. There were not many horsemen to pursue after them, 
and the Regent cried to save and not to kill, and Grange was 
never cruel, so that there were few slain and taken. And the 
only slaughter was at the. first rencounter by the shot of the 
soldiers, which Grange had planted at the lane-head behind 
some dikes.” 

It is remarkable that, while passing through the small town 
of Renfrew, some partisans, adherents of the House of Lennox, 
attempting to arrest Queen Mary and her attendants, were 
obliged to make way for her, not without slaughter. 


Note VII., p. 318. — Burial of the Abbot’s Heart 
IN THE Avenel Aisle. 

This was not the explanation of the incident of searching 
for the heart, mentioned in the introduction to the tale, which 
the author originally intended. It was designed to refer to 
the heart of Robert Bruce. It is generally known that that 
great monarch, being on his death-bed, bequeathed to the good 
Lord James of Douglas, the task of carrying his heart to the 
Holy Land, to fulfii in a certain degree his own desire to per- 
form a crusade. Upon Douglas’s death,* fighting against the 
Moors in Spain, a sort of military hors d’oeuvre to which he 


326 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


could have pleaded no regular call of duty, liia followers 
brought back the Bruce’s heart, and deposited it in the Abbey 
church of Melrose, the Kennaquhair of the tale. 

This Abbey had been always particularly favoured by the 
Bruce. We have already seen his extreme anxiety that each 
of the reverend brethren should be daily supplied with a ser- 
vice of boiled almonds, rice and milk, pease, or the like, to be 
called the King’s mess, and that without the ordinary service 
of their table being either disturbed in quantity or quality. 
But this was not the only mark of the benignity of good King 
Robert towards the monks of Melrose, since, by a charter of the 
date, 29th May, 1326, he conferred on the Abbot of Melrose 
the sum of two thousand pounds sterling, for rebuilding the 
church of St. Mary’s, ruined by the English ; and there is 
little or no doubt that the principal part of the remains which 
now display such exquisite specimens of Gothic architecture, 
at its very purest period, had their origin in this munificent 
donation. The money was to be paid out of crown lands, 
estates forfeited to the King, and other property or demesnes 
of the crown. 

A very curious letter written to his son about three weeks 
before his death, has been pointed out to me by my friend Mr. 
Thomas Thomson, Deputy-Register for Scotland. It enlarges 
so much on the love of the royal writer to the community of 
Melrose, that it is well worthy of being inserted in a work con- 
nected in some degree with Scottish History. 


Litera Domini Regis Roberti ad filtum Suum David. 

“ Robertus dei gratia Rex Scottorum, David precordialissimo 
filio suo, ac ceteris successoribus suis; Salutem, et sic ejus pre- 
cepta tenere, ut cum sua benedictione possint regnare. Fili 
carissime, digne censeri videtur filius, qui, paternos in bonis 
mores imitans, piam ejus nititur exequi voluntatem ; nec pro- 
prie sibi sumit nomen heredis, qui salubribus predecessoris 
affectibus non adherit : Cupientes igitur, ut piam affectionem 
et scinceram dilectionem, quam erga monasteriura de Metros, 
ubi cor nostrum ex special! devotione disposuimus tumulan- 
dum, et erga Religiosos ibidem Deo servientes, ipsorum vita 
sanctissima nos ad hoc excitante, concepimus; Tu ceterique 
successores mei pia scinceritate prosequamini, ut, ex vestre di- 
lectionis affectu dictis Religiosis nostri causa post morteni nos- 


AUTHOR’S NOTES. 


327 


tram ostenso, ipsi pro nobis ad orandum fervencius et forcius 
animentur : Vobis precipiraus quantum possumus, instanter 
supplicamus, et ex toto corde injungimus, Quatinus assigna- 
cionibus quas eisdein viris Religiosis et fabrica Ecclesie sue de 
novo fecimus ac eciam omnibus aliis donacionibus nostris, ipsos 
libere gaudere permittatis, Easdem • potius si necesse fuerit 
augmentantes quam diminuentes, ipsorum peticiones auribus 
benevolis admittentes, ac ipsos contra suos invasores et emulos 
pia defensione protegentes. Hanc autem exhortacionem sup- 
plicacionem et preceptum tu, fili ceterique successores nostri, 
prestanti animo complere curetis, si nostram benedictionem 
habere velitis, una cum benedictione filii summi Regis, qui 
lilios docuit patrum voluntates in bono perficere, asserens in 
mundum se venisse non ut suam voluntatem faceret sed pater- 
nam. In testimonium autem nostre devotionis' erga locum 
predictum sic a nobis dilectum et electum concepte, presentem 
literam Religiosis predictis dimittimus, nostris successoribus 
in posterum ostendendam. Data apud Cardros, undecimo die 
Maij, Anno Regni nostri vicesimo quarto.” 

If this charter be altogether genuine, and there is no appear- 
ance of forgery, it gives rise to a curious doubt in Scottish 
history. The letter announces that the King had already 
destined his heart to be deposited at Melrose. The resolution 
to send it to Palestine, under the charge of Douglas, must have 
been adopted betwixt 11th May 1329, the date of the letter, 
and 7th June of the same year, when the Bruce died; or else 
we must suppose that the commission of Douglas extended not 
only to taking the Bruce’s heart to Palestine, but to bring it 
safe back to its final place of deposit in the Abbey of Melrose. 

It would not be worth enquiring by what caprice the author 
was induced to throw the incident of the Bruce’s heart entirely 
out of the story, save merely to say, that he found himself un- 
able to fill up the canvass he had sketched, and indisposed to 
prosecute the management of the supernatural machinery with 
which his plan, when it was first rough-hewn, was connected 
and combined. 


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EDITOR’S NOTES, 


(a) p. 21. “ Lord Ruthven.” This is the son of the Lord 
Ruthven who was the most brutal of Rizzio’s assassins. In 
1581 he was created Earl of Gowrie, in 1582 he was concerned 
in the Raid of Ruthven, and he was beheaded in May 1584. 
His two sons died in the mysterious affair called the Gowrie 
Conspiracy, August 5, 1600. 

(b) p. 29. “ The privy garden of St. Andrews.” There is 
a house, now called Queen Mary’s, on the left hand of South 
Street, looking from the Cathedral, just in front of the ruined 
chapel of St. Leonard ; which is popularly said to be that 
wherein the Queen lived, “ as a burgess wife,” and amused her- 
self at St. Andrews. The arrangement of the Queen’s room 
and oratory is curiously like that of the chambers where Rizzio 
was murdered in Holyrood. 

(c) p. 31. “ The fatal month of May.” This was an unlucky 
month for marriages in old Roman as in Scotch superstition. 
Compare Ovid, “ Fasti,” v. 487. 

(d) p. 31. “A bond by the nobles.” This alludes to the 
mysterious affair of the supper at Ainslie’s Tavern, April 19, 
1567. Bothwell, having been nominally acquitted of Darnley’s 
murder, invited a great number of the lords to supper at Ains- 
lie’s. He there produced a bond of advice that Mary should 
marry him. Eglinton stole out of the room; all the other no- 
blemen signed the bond, for what reason or reasons it is only 
possible to conjecture. They can hardly have been persuaded 
by a show of force. Some may have expected what ensued, 
the ruin of Bothwell and the Queen. Morton, Ruthven, and 
Semple were among those who signed. 

(e) p. 39. “ With deep water around me.” According to 

Mary’s secretary, Claude Nau, in his “ History of Queen Mary ” 
(edited by R. P. Joseph Stevenson, S.J., 1883), the rebels had 
some scheme for drowning the Queen in Loch Leven. There 
is a story that the Queen gave birth prematurely to twins in 
Loch Leven Castle, and a wild tale of her becoming the mother 
of a child by George Douglas, while that child, in turn, begot 
a Covenanting Minister 1 (Wodrow, “Analecta,” L 166). 


330 


EDITOR’S NOTES. 


(/) p. 66. “ There is a breeze from the west, and we shall 

have sport.” In point of fact, an east wind is reckoned the 
most favourable at Loch Leven. The breed of trout is famous, 
and is, by some, believed to be a survival of land-locked salmon. 
The trout average a pound apiece, but are occasionally caught 
up to four or five pounds. 

{g) p. 183. “ The marriage of Sebastian.’* Sebastiani, or 

Bastian Pagez, a foreigner in the Queen’s household, married 
Christily Hogg (see Robertson’s Preface to “ Inventories of 
Mary, Queen of Scots,” p. Iviii., note), on the night of Darnley's 
murder. The Queen went from Darnley’s room in Kirk o’ 
Field to Holyrood, where the wedding festivities were held on 
a Sunday night. She walked through the streets without 
guards, her party carrying torches. Bothwell left the party for 
the scene of the murder. Sebastiani was denounced as an ac- 
complice : he was imprisoned in the Tolbooth on June 16, 
1567. (“Diurnal of Remarkable Occurrents,” Bannatyne 
Club, 1833 ; Keith, ii. 530, note 1.) 

(^) p. 262. Escape of Queen Mary from Loch Leven.” 
Sir James Melville says that the Lady of Loch Leven ‘*was 
also thocht to be upoun the consaill,” and Calderwood reports 
the same rumour, which is even confirmed by Buchanan (Keith, 
ii. 795, note 2). The keys were found by a boy wading in the 
loch in 1805, and were sent to the sixteenth Earl of Morton. 
They are now in the Museum of Scottish Antiquaries. 

(t) p. 306. “ Your Majesty has lost a battle, — your ancestor, 

Bruce, lost seven successively.” Scott may have remembered 
a report that Lord Lovat addressed those words to Prince 
Charles, when he entertained the Prince at Gortuleg after the 
flight from Culloden. The story about Lovat’s remark is 
disputed. 


June 1893. 


Andrew Lanq. 


GLOSSARY, 


A’, all. 

Abigail, a lady's-maid. 

Adverteis, inform. 

Agone, ago. 

Alexipharmics, antidotes to 
poisons, &c. 

An, if. 

Andrea Ferrara, a sword of the 
finest steel, so called after the 
maker. 

Anilities, old-women follies. 

“ Anon of,” in consequence of. 

Astuciously, cleverly, cun- 
ningly. 

Aught, anything ; also, eight. 

Auld, old. 

Aver, a cart-horse. 

Awmous, alms. 


Back-sword, a sword with one 
sharp edge. 

Banders, persons banded to- 
gether under oath. 

Ban-dog, a large fierce dog, 
sometimes used for baiting. 

Bane, to poison. 

Barret-cap, a military cap. 

Basnet, a helmet. 

Bauble, a short carved-headed 
stick carried by fools. 

Bear- ward, a keeper of bears. 

Ben, the inner room of a cot- 
tage. 

Be’st, art. 

Bilbo, a sword. 

“ Black jack,” a black-leather 
jerkin ; also, a drinking-vessel, 
usually of leather. 

Bode, to forebode, to portend. 
Bodie, body. 


Bodle, a small coin. 

** Body o’ me ! ” my body! (an 
oath). 

Bolt, an arrow of cross-bow. 

Bolt-head, a receiver. 

Bow, boll, an old Scots measure 
= 6 bushels. 

Brag, to defy. 

Branle, dance. 

Brawly, very well, bravely. 

“Brent brow,” a high fore- 
head. 

Brocht, brought. 

Broidery, embroidery. 

“ Broken clan,” a clan witli no 
established chief or position. 

“ Bugelet horn,” a bugle horn. 

Busk, to dress, to bedeck. 


Canny, easy, careful. 
Cart-avers, cart-horses. 

Cates, delicacies. 

Change-house, an inn. 
Chastise, to repress. 

Chuff, a clown. 

Churl, a peasant, a‘ rustic. 

“ Close the house,” close to the 
house. 

Closet, closed. 

Clout, a white cloth for archers 
to shoot at. 

Clout, to mend. 

Clove-gillyflower, carnation 
pink. 

Cog, to deceive. 

Cogging, drinking. 

Coif, a cap or covering for the 
head. 

Complot, a plotting together. 

Corbie, a raven. 


I 


332 


GLOSSARY. 


Corbie-messenger, one who re- 
turns too late or not at all. 

Corpse-candle, corpse-light, a 
supernatural light said to 
presage death., 

Courants, a kind of dance. 

Court-cattle, courtiers. 

Coxcomb, top of the head. 

Cozenage, trickery. 

“ Crown, French,*’ a silver coin 
= about 5s. 

Cruizuedor, a small Italian coin. 

“ Crush a pot,” to carouse with. 

Cubicular, a groom of the bedt 
chamber. 

Curch, a cap. 

Custodier, a keeper. 

Dalmatique, a white dress. 

Dayes, days. 

“ Debateable land,” the Border 
country. 

Diagnostics, determining sym- 
ptoms of a disease. 

Diascordium, confection of scor- 
dium, the water germander. 

Dibble, a pointed instrument to 
make holes. 

Distemperature, disturbed state. 

Doom, condemn, judicial sen- 
tence. 

** Donjon keep,” the principal 
tower of a castle. 

Doublet, a jacket or outer waist- 
coat. 

Doughty, illustrious. 

Draw, to invite, to call. 

Dreadour, dread, fear. 

Drift, a drove. 

Ducat, a coin = 4s. 


Eftsoons, in a short time. 

“Eke out,” to add to, to in- 
crease. 

Emprise, enterprise. 

“ End, at an,” at a time. 
Ensample, an example. 

Er, ere. 

Erne, an eagle. 

Espial, a spy. 


Evangele, the gospel. 

Everiche, every. 

Exheridated, disinherited. 

Eyas, a young hawk. 

Falchion, a short crooked sword 
Falconet, a small cannon. 
Farthingale, a hoop petticoat. 
Fell, cruel ; also, the skin. 
Flaunes, pancakes. 

Flee, to fly. 

Fleured, flowered. 

Foughten, fought. 
Foure-hammer, fore- or sledge* 
hammer. 

Foy, faith. 

Frack, bold. 

Franklin, a freeholder. 
Friended, befriended. 

Fro, from. 


Gadabout, one who goes about 
idly. 

Gaillard, joyous, jolly, wanton. 
Galliard, a lively dance ; also, a 
gay youth. 

Galopin, an inferior servant. 
Gamester, a concubine. 

Gang, go. 

GarbuUes, broils. 

Garnished, adorned. 

Gat, got. 

Gear, matter. 

Gear-men, men in armour. 
God-a-mercy, have mercy. 
Gode, good. 

Graithed, decked. 


Halidome, land held under a 
religious house. 

Hallan, the inner porch of a cot- 
tage. 

Harquebuss, an ancient fire- 
lock. 

“Have at thy coat,” seize on 
thy coat. 

Head-tire, attire for the head. 

Herling, a small sea-trout. 

Hiderward, hitherward. 


GLOSSARY . 


333 


Holie, holy. 
Hote, hot. 
Howff, a haunt. 


Ilk, of the same name. 
Uka, each, every. 

Imp, to graft. 


“ Jack-a-lent visages,** long 
visages. 

Jackman, an armed retainer. 
Jennet, a small Spanish horse. 
Junket, to feast. 


Kain-fowls, fowls paid as part of 
rent. 

Ken, to know. 

Ken*d, known. 

Kent, to propel a boat by a long 
pole. 

Kirnmilk, butter- milk. 

Kirtle, a gown. 

“ Kith or kin,** acquaintance or 
relation. 

Knapscap, knapskuil, a head- 
piece, a helmet. 

Knosps, knobs. 


Lavolta, a dance with much mo- 
tion. 

Leech, a surgeon. 

Leman, a sweetheart, a mis- 
tress. 

Let, to retard, to hinder. 

Limbo-lake, an imaginary region 
beyond this world. 

Limn, to paint, to plan. 

Linstock, a staff with match for 
firing cannon. 

List, to wish, to choose. 

Locksman, a jailor. 

Londe, land. 


Mail, a bag with apparel. 
Mail-gardener, one who culti- 
vates for sale. 

Mair, more. 


“ Make good,** to defend. 
Malapert, impertinent, 

Mark. See Merk. 

Marplot, one ^Vho mars a plot. 
Marry, indeed, fprsooth. 

Marys, the designation given to 
the maids-of-houour in Scot- 
«4and. 

Massy-more, the dungeon. 
Mediciner, the doctor. 

Menzie, the company. 

Merk, a Scots coin = 1.?. 
Metoposcopical, physiognomical. 
Mickle, great. 

Mithridate, an antidote to poison. 
Mony, many. 

Mutchkin, a liquid mea'Sure = 
4 gills. 

Mystagogue, an interpreter of 
mysteries. 


Nae, no, 

“ Neighboured ill,” agreed ill. 
Nese, the nose. 

Nick, to defeat. 

Nightes, nights. 


Ony, any. 
Ower, over, too. 


Pallet-couch, a small bed. 

Pantler, the keeper of the pan- 
try, one in charge of pro- 
visions. 

Pardoner, a seller of pardons, 

Parr, small fish, the young of 
the salmon. 

Partlet, a band for the neck. 

Pas, pass. 

Patch, a paltry fellow. 

Paven, a stately dance. 

Pear-mains, a fine kind of apple. 

Pease-porridge, porridge made 
of pease-meal. 

Peel-house, a small square tower 
of stone and lime, used for de- 
fence. 

Pickthank, a mischief-maker. 

Pie, a magpie. 


334 


GLOSSARY. 


Pike-staff, a long staff with 
pointed steel head. 

Pilgrimer, a pilgrim. 

Pilniewinks, instruments for 
torturing the fipgers. 

Plack, a small coin = ^ of an 
English penny. 

Pleach, to interweave. # 

Plump, a number standing to- 
gether. 

Podagra, gout in the foot. 

Points, tagged laces used in 
ancient dress. 

Popinjay, a parrot, a fop. 

“ Porter’s lodge discipline,” 
dismissal. 

Pothicar, an apothecary. 

Pottle-pot, a vessel holding two 
quarts. 

Proof, armed in,” in proved 
armour. 

” Proud peat,” a proud person, 
used in contempt. 

Pyet, a magpie. 

Quacksalver, a dealer in quack 
medicines. 

Quarrel, an arrow for cross- 
bow. 

“ Quarrel-pane,” diamond- 
shaped. 

Quean, a young woman. 


Raid, an inroad, an attack. 

Ratsbane, poison for rats. 

“ Redd up,” to put in order. 

Reek, smoke. 

‘‘Regality, lord of,” one hold- 
ing territorial jurisdiction con- 
ferred by the king. 

Rive, to rend, to tear. 

Roke, a rock. 

Ruflle, a disturbance ; also, to 
cause a disturbance. 

Runagate, a fugitive. 


Sae, so. ' • . 

Saxpence, sixpence. ' * 
Scaur, a precipitous bank or 
rock. 


Scrip, to mock. 

Scurril, scurrilous, vulgar. 

Se, the sea. 

Sewer, the server of a feast. 

“ Sexton’s pound,” the grave. 
Shame, be ashamed. 

Sic, such. 

Skeely, skilful. 

Snese, sneeze. 

Snood, a fillet with which a 
woman binds her hair. 
Snottreth, bubbles. 

Sonne, the sun. 

Sooth, true, truth. 

Spaewife, a fortune-teller. 

Spell, to tell. 

Stark, wholly, entirely. 

“ Staving and tailing,” striking 
with a staff and running 
away. 

Stoup, a vessel or measure for 
liquids. 

Streme, a stream. 

“ Stricken field,” field of bat- 
tle. 

Subtriste, somewhat sad. 
Succory, wild endive. 

Stunner, a summoner. 

Sworder, a soldier. 


Ta’en, taken. 

Testificate, a certificate 
Testoon, an old Italian silver 
coin = about Is. 4c?. 

Thirled, tied, enthralled to a mill. 
Thumbikins, thumbscrews, in- 
struments of torture. 

Tire, a headdress. 

Trencher, a wooden plate. 

Trow, to think, to believe. 


Usquebaugh, whisky. 


Vasquine, a gown or petticoat. 
Vaunt-guard, vanguard. 


Wains, wagons. 
Warlo^, a vizard. 


GLOSSARY. 


335 


Wasna, was not. 
Weal, welfare. 
Weel, well. 

Wefts, waves. 
Weir-men, soldiers. 
Wha, who. 

Wimple, a veil. 
Withdrawing-room, 
room. 


‘ ‘ Without my gown and band,** 
not as a professional writer of 
fiction. 

Wot, to know. 

“ Wrath you not,** do not get 
wroth. 


a drawing- 


Yclept, called. 


THE END, 


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